A Duke Never Forgets (The Duke Hunters Club, #3)

by Blythe, Bianca

  “That’s absurd.” Genevieve frowned. “Everyone knows the best water comes from the Lake District. Besides, water is not enhanced by falling through the roof.”

  “All my roofs are brilliant,” the duke argued.

  Genevieve was handling this poorly. “Look. You don’t want the cottage. The rooms are small. You probably want a place with more space.”

  “I don’t intend on staying here permanently,” the duke said. “I have my castle in Hampshire.”

  “So, you just intend on taking it so we can’t use it?”

  “Perhaps.” The duke gave a modest shrug. “It’s really not any of your concern.”

  Anger moved through Genevieve’s veins, even though anger was a sensation she seldom experienced.

  “My family just moved here all the way from the Lake District,” she said. “We’re tired and exhausted. And you want us to find someplace else? After we’ve paid rent?”

  “Precisely,” the duke said. “Slowness isn’t one of your negative qualities. But then, you have so many others.”

  Genevieve tightened her fists. She had an odd urge to lunge toward him. Slapping his face seemed an enviable occupation.

  Still, she refrained from slapping him. She’d already shot him. She would simply have to take pleasure in that.

  She only wished she hadn’t apologized for shooting him, and she certainly wished she hadn’t helped him recover from the shooting. “I wish Juliet and I had left you bleeding in that forest.”

  “All you did was pour alcohol over me,” the duke said. “And bind my wound.”

  “I made certain you didn’t get an infection,” Genevieve said. “I saved your life.”

  The words were dramatic and distinctly in her favor, but for an odd reason, the duke beamed. “Ah, ha! You admit it! You might have killed me.”

  She furrowed her brow.

  “It’s true!” the duke exclaimed. “That is certainly a reason to expel you from my cottage, even if we did sign a contract. I’m sure any magistrate would see that it is quite reasonable that I do not want to have any criminals living in my abodes. Quite bad for the community, after all.”

  “I am not a criminal,” Genevieve seethed.

  “On the contrary,” the duke said. “You are the very worst kind. Killing people rather exceeds all the other sins one might do.”

  “You’re impossible,” Genevieve said. “You know that was in self-defense.”

  “Do I? Tell me, Miss Potter. Why are you going by an assumed name?”

  “That’s not relevant,” Genevieve said finally. “But since you’re here, and since you own the cottage, you can fix that hole in the roof.”

  “There’s no hole in the roof,” the duke said. “My roofs are immaculate.”

  A crash sounded from the kitchen, and Genevieve stiffened.

  Oh, dear.

  Mama must be struggling in the kitchen.

  She hoped the duke had not heard, but his brow furrowed, and he jerked his head toward the sound.

  “What’s that?” the duke asked sharply.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Genevieve lied.

  The duke was still for a moment, and Genevieve tensed, hoping no more odd sounds would come from the kitchen.

  “It seems that impeccable hearing is another one of your qualities to be complimented on,” she said with a slight laugh. “You probably heard a teaspoon being placed on a tray.”

  The duke stared at her. “I don’t think so.”

  Another crash sounded, and Genevieve cringed.

  “Did you hear that?” the duke asked.

  She shook her head, waiting for the door to open and for Mama and Billy to enter the room, armed with a tray of tea and sweets.

  Normally, Genevieve might look forward to seeing them.

  Nothing, in Genevieve’s opinion, was quite as nice as having tea, and sweets were a lovely addition.

  Still, it was odd Mama and Billy hadn’t appeared yet. Perhaps Mama was simply familiarizing herself with the kitchen. It wasn’t as if she’d used the kitchen in Cumberland. That had been the domain of Cook and kitchen maids, guarded by any servants on break who preferred to gossip unhampered by sudden appearances of their prime gossip subjects.

  If Genevieve hadn’t played with some of the servants’ children as a child, she would not have visited the kitchen either. Though Mama discussed the household menu with the housekeeper, that was done in Mama’s personal room, amidst her sewing patterns and perpetually unfinished needlework. Efficiency wasn’t one of Mama’s strengths, even when indulging in her favorite hobby.

  “Perhaps I should investigate,” the duke said.

  “Nonsense,” Genevieve said with a laugh.

  “Your mother and brother do have a maid to assist them?” the duke asked, drawing his forehead together in obvious suspicion.

  “Naturally!” Genevieve lied.

  No one should know the reason for their visit was anything but an absurd desire to see the sea.

  People were prone to traveling vast distances to see the sea in Cornwall, even though England was surrounded by ocean, and even though most people lived nearer to the ocean than the particular stretch of water that bordered Cornwall.

  Personally, Genevieve had always wondered at those people’s enthusiasm. Carriage rides were sufficiently uncomfortable when one had to travel nearby to see people and places one actually cared about. Traveling in carriages filled with luggage was not an improvement, nor was traveling vast distances. Her parents had shared her distaste for unnecessary travel. It was the reason why she hadn’t been to London until she’d had her season last year, and it was perhaps also the reason why she’d despised her season.

  She could hardly look like a brilliant future hostess and worthy wife of a titled or even untitled member of the ton, if she stood quivering in the corner, marveling at all the gilded cornices and the carved wooden paneling, as if she’d been hauled from the servant’s chambers, and not simply Cumberland.

  No.

  London had not been a success.

  She hadn’t realized at the time that it would be her only chance to obtain her husband. At the time, her parents never spoke ominously about finances. At the time, Genevieve supposed, her parents actually hadn’t had any problems.

  Genevieve sighed.

  Now her role was to be that of a dutiful daughter. Her mother only occasionally spoke about her marrying, in the sort of fanciful tone one might employ when speaking about visiting Rome or the French Riviera: technically, the experience was possible, but so many other things had to happen to achieve it, that it was best to dismiss it completely as a dream.

  Certainly, if the Duke of Sandridge was any indication of the quality of men in Cornwall, Genevieve was most unimpressed. Her friend Juliet had recently wed the Duke of Ainsworth, the Duke of Sandridge’s best friend. Genevieve only realized now the vast stores of patience and angelic qualities her friend must possess.

  An odd smell emitted from the kitchen. Was something...burning? Genevieve’s heart thudded.

  It occurred to Genevieve they might not have any sweets to serve the duke. It also occurred to her that her mother and brother might have felt compelled to bake sweets themselves. After all, what household did not have access to sweets? And what household didn’t have a Cook to make such delicacies at a moment’s notice?

  Only households with no money lacked those things, and Genevieve was certain her mother did not want to give the duke any reason to believe that the Devon—rather, Potter—family was remotely in that category.

  Papa’s lack of money was a secret. If people knew he lacked money, they might not lend money. Genevieve didn’t like to consider what might happen in that situation: she was certain nothing good.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said quickly.

  After all, even if something were burning, surely her mother and brother would notice, right? And surely, they would know what to do?

  No, everything was definitely going smoothl
y.

  Genevieve could sense it.

  “Perhaps I should investigate,” the duke said.

  “Nonsense,” Genevieve blurted.

  “You would miss my company, Miss Devon?” the duke asked with a sly grin on his face.

  Heavens.

  Most likely, all manner of women went weak if he went around speaking to them in such a manner. He seemed to have the ability to turn one’s knees to liquid. No doubt, it would have been a tactic useful during the war, though Genevieve had a faint suspicion his charm worked better on women than invading French soldiers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “WELL, MISS DEVON—”

  “Miss Potter,” she corrected him, her cheeks pinkening.

  Sebastian exhaled. Were Sebastian to adopt an alias, he would choose a surname with more flourish than Potter. He scrutinized his companion. The woman continued to insist that moving was an impossibility, even while she flung insults about the cottage.

  Sebastian supposed the cottage was small, but some things of beauty were small. Personally, Sebastian had always found it convenient that everything in the cottage was close together. Perhaps this cottage couldn’t rival the manor houses and castles in which the ton tended to ensconce themselves. Perhaps this place didn’t have high ceilings that made one think that venturing into the outdoors was unnecessary, and perhaps the timber beams that crisscrossed the walls and held up the ceiling were old-fashioned and unlikely to be found at Versailles or Chatsworth.

  Still, Sebastian had looked forward to staying at this cottage more than at any of his more elegant homes. This cottage was cozy. The small square footage meant the cottage was always warm. He didn’t even require a servant to light a fire for him to sneak hot bricks in his bed.

  No one whispered that he truly wasn’t supposed to have become a duke, speaking mournfully of the virtues of Sebastian’s second cousin, whose only inappropriate action in his life had been succumbing to an untimely death.

  “When did you arrive?” he asked.

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “I hope you enjoy Cornwall.”

  “You mean we can stay?” Miss Potter beamed. Her smile was so wide and so lovely Sebastian almost stepped back. He almost wished he could say she was absolutely correct, and that of course she could stay.

  But then he remembered this was his cottage and he’d been longing to use it.

  He remembered Miss Potter had shot him and that niceness and deserving were not words to be associated with her.

  “I only meant you can take another cottage here,” Sebastian said.

  Her face crumpled. “So could you.”

  “I own this cottage.” He turned his head toward the kitchen. It was odd that Miss Potter’s mother and brother had disappeared for so long.

  Miss Potter cleared her throat suddenly.

  “Are you well?” he asked drily.

  He might be throwing her out of the cottage, but he had no intention for her to go about telling people he wasn’t the model of ducal politeness.

  “Yes!” she squeaked.

  “Er—good.” He turned his head back toward the kitchen. There definitely did seem to be some unusual sounds coming from that section of the cottage.

  “Perhaps you could fix the leak!” Miss Potter said quickly.

  His eyebrows rose.

  She pointed toward the ceiling. “There!”

  “There’s no leak,” he said automatically.

  “Nonsense.”

  “Miss Potter, this cottage is perfect,” he explained with a patience he was certain he didn’t feel. “A leak would make it imperfect. Therefore, logically no leak can exist. It is all quite simple. Utterly logical.”

  “Practically worthy of Aristotle.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Excuse me?”

  This time, she gave him a patient smile, and he stepped back.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked innocently.

  “No. I was just musing that I’ve never loathed anyone more than you.”

  For a moment, hurt flitted across her face, and he regretted his words.

  He sighed. “You want me to check on the nonexistent leak.”

  She nodded rapidly, and a pleased smile was on her face.

  He groaned.

  Some men would do anything for smiles like that.

  Obviously, he was not most men.

  Still, perhaps he could see if he could be of assistance.

  Sebastian looked up at the ceiling.

  “The leak is there.” Miss Potter pointed again.

  Sebastian tried not to think about the slenderness of her ungloved hand. He was accustomed to seeing women wearing gloves. Older female neighbors wore cotton gloves when they trudged through fields on the odd occasions they came to call on him, usually to boast upon the merits of their younger female cousins, and they wore lace gloves when he danced with them at balls.

  But Miss Potter now wore no gloves, and something tightened in his stomach.

  “The area looks darker than the rest of the ceiling,” she said. “It’s easy to spot.”

  “Ah... These older cottages can be deceptive,” he said, not caring if his words sounded somewhat condescending. “I can see you might be under the impression that that is a leak.”

  “And what do you believe it is?”

  He hesitated. “A pool of dust.”

  “Dust?” She furrowed her brow.

  “Probably not dust,” he hastened to say.

  “Good, because I’m certain this cottage was supposed to be cleaned before we rented it.”

  “Then certainly not dust,” he said. “My servants are thorough.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Then what do you believe it is?”

  He surveyed the spot. It did resemble a leak, but he was not going to inform her of that. Obviously, the cottage couldn’t have water damage, just as the cottage couldn’t have a pool of dust. “Clearly, it’s a shadow.”

  Miss Potter’s eyebrows jutted up, and he shifted his weight from leg to leg, conscious of her disapproval.

  “You may be disappointed,” he said, “but the fact is that this cottage is perfect.”

  “Well, perhaps you can still fetch a ladder to check,” she said. “My brother and I looked for a ladder but couldn’t find one.”

  He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Ladders are unnecessary.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Not for a job like this,” he said. “I could do it with my eyes closed.”

  “I hadn’t realized your height was extendable,” she said drily.

  He frowned. Sebastian didn’t like to dwell on his height. He was tall—but only in the company of short people.

  It was a frustration for him, but one he preferred not to ruminate on. Everyone was the same height while swimming.

  Sebastian tried to remember if he’d seen a ladder here before. He strode toward the table. Four chairs surrounded it, and he yanked one of the chairs from its position and placed it beside the vase.

  “Completely unnecessary,” he grumbled, stepping onto the chair.

  For a brief moment, he surveyed the room from his new height. The cottage looked equally pleasing from this perspective. His gaze fell on her. Though she was quiet, clearly a miraculous occurrence, her expression was skeptical.

  He frowned, then inclined his head toward the ceiling. Perhaps the ceiling did look somewhat far away. Still, that was what toes were for. Specifically, tip-toes. He drew himself up, wishing he’d had the foresight to remove his boots. The leather was better suited for wandering in London’s often filthy streets than for doing athletic moves, but that didn’t matter.

  He would be finished with this soon.

  He stood on his tip-toes and craned his neck up.

  “Do you think the chair is sturdy enough?”

  “Naturally,” Sebastian replied. “It might not suffice for a walrus, but I, Miss Potter, am—”

  “No walrus,” she finished for him, rolling her eyes.


  “Precisely,” he said, then craned his neck up again.

  The dark timber beams on the ceiling suddenly flew up, and he waved his arms, attempting to rectify his position.

  It was no use.

  He was falling.

  Blast it, this was not dignified.

  In the moment after that, he crashed onto the floor. His rear end ached, and he fought the urge to rub it.

  Miss Potter’s eyebrows climbed upward, and she covered her lips quickly. “Are you quite well?”

  Sebastian halted his movement. “Er—naturally.”

  “That was a large fall.”

  “Not that large,” he countered.

  “You’re not in great pain?” she asked.

  “Naturally not.”

  “Ah. I see that you must be experienced in falling,” Miss Potter said. “Perhaps that has rendered you immune to normal emotions.”

  Sebastian stood rapidly, ignoring the sharp pain cascading through his rear end. He attempted to regather his dignity. From the incredulous look on Miss Potter’s face, it was no use.

  He gritted his teeth. “I am leaving.”

  “But we haven’t finished speaking about this.”

  “In that, Miss Potter, you are absolutely incorrect.”

  THE DOOR OPENED, AND Genevieve swung her gaze toward the sound.

  “I’m sorry we’re late, Your Grace,” her mother said, carrying a tray of tea and burnt sweets.

  Genevieve stared at her mother.

  Her mother stared back.

  “Where did he go?” her mother asked.

  “He left,” Genevieve said miserably. “He wants to evict us. And then he left.”

  “He can’t do that,” her mother said. “If anyone draws attention to us...”

  Billy glanced up at them. “What are you speaking about?”

  “Adult matters,” Mama said.

  Billy shrugged. “Can I play?”

  Mama nodded. “Yes. But only inside. Mrs. Ackley is visiting soon, and you mustn’t stain your clothes.”

  Billy nodded, then rushed upstairs. His feet pounded on the wooden stairs, as if he were taking particularly glee in making each step creak and groan, an ability he’d never achieved on the marble staircases in their manor house in Cumberland.