Blame It on the Duke

by Lenora Bell

“That doesn’t help our plight, now does it? He mucked everything up.”

  “I think it was your father that did the mucking.”

  “Well, the two of them landed us in this steaming mess.”

  “A poetic turn of phrase, Miss Tombs.”

  “An appropriate one, Lord Hatherly.”

  Her eyes sparked with intelligence, wit, and . . . displeasure.

  She was as unhappy about the situation as he was.

  Intriguing.

  “You don’t want to marry me,” he stated with surprise.

  Marriageable ladies had been heaving themselves at him since he came of age. They were usually willing to overlook the family curse of lunacy in pursuit of the title . . . and the handsome devil that came with it.

  “Congratulations.” She rolled her eyes. “Give the marquess a prize.”

  He hadn’t noticed before what an unusual shade her eyes were. More intensely green than blue, with flecks of gold around the irises.

  “Why don’t you wish to marry me?” he asked.

  “Don’t sound so surprised, my lord.” She folded her arms over her chest. He couldn’t help noticing that the motion mounded her breasts over her bodice enticingly.

  She had nice breasts. Generous and lush for such a slender frame.

  “It’s not the usual response I receive from young ladies.”

  “I’m supposed to swoon at your feet, is that it?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” he goaded, in order to watch the color heighten in her cheeks.

  “Allow me to assure you that I have never swooned, not once in my life, and I don’t intend to begin now just because you’ll be a duke and you’re almost stupidly handsome and your buckskin breeches are tight enough to—” She bit her lower lip, her cheeks flushing, as if she hadn’t meant to say all of that out loud.

  “Please, by all means, finish your sentence,” Nick drawled.

  Miss Tombs turned her back on him and gazed out the window.

  “My breeches are tight enough to . . .” he prompted, moving closer. “Turn a girl’s head? Give a lady ideas?”

  She wheeled around, swirling the lace of her hem into motion. “Cause permanent damage.”

  Nick chuckled appreciatively.

  He was beginning to like her unusually bawdy sense of humor. She certainly talked about a man’s private parts more than your ordinary young miss.

  If he had to be locked in a library with a lady, she might as well make him laugh.

  And he might as well make her blush.

  He was beginning to enjoy making her blush.

  Drawing the edges of his cutaway coat back even further with his fists, and drawing her gaze right where he wanted it, he struck a wide-legged stance.

  “You seem to have quite a fascination with my . . . anatomy, Miss Tombs. That’s the second time you’ve mentioned the subject today.”

  She jerked her gaze away from his crotch, her cheeks nearly a match for her dress.

  “You’re insufferably arrogant. Not all young ladies are fascinated by your anatomy or your title.”

  “More’s the pity. And here I was beginning to think we might suit after all.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh no. We don’t suit. Not at all. A wife would be a dreadful impediment to your aimless life of debauchery.”

  “An impediment, Miss Tombs?” His gaze lingered on her cupid’s bow of a mouth. Had she ever been kissed? She set her lips into a thin line and glared at him. Probably not, he decided. “Or an enhancement.”

  Maybe it was the lingering effects of last night’s brandy, or the two hours of sleep, but a reckless idea occurred to him.

  Reckless, amoral, and probably extremely ill-advised.

  Like all his best ideas.

  Maybe the pretty-yet-prickly Miss Tombs was the solution.

  A temporary engagement could buy Nick the time he needed to find Stubbs and determine the truth of this situation. There had to be a way out of this predicament that allowed Nick to keep both Sunderland and his freedom.

  Engagements were broken regularly in the haut ton. As evidenced by what had happened with his friend James, Duke of Harland. He’d left his pedigreed bride at the altar and married her illegitimate half sister. Now the two ladies were, improbably, the best of friends.

  Nick didn’t want to hurt Miss Tombs, of course.

  He’d end it well before the altar.

  The more he thought about it, and the more sherry he drank, the more a temporary engagement seemed like just the thing.

  Now . . . to convince Miss Tombs to see things his way.

  He’d never had any difficult convincing women to do exactly what he required of them.

  He gave her one of his patented slow-burning smiles.

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you smiling at me so wolfishly, Lord Hatherly?”

  “Because I remembered that two ladies of your acquaintance married two of my friends. Could this be”—he gazed into her eyes, drawing his words out on a husky whisper—“written in the stars?”

  The incredulity on her face was comic. “Written in the stars? Really, Lord Hatherly.” She shook her head. “What’s gotten into you? I thought you were against this marriage.”

  This woman might require a bit more convincing.

  “Until I spoke with you in seclusion, Miss Tombs. Until those delicious dimples of yours conquered my—”

  “Stop right there.” She narrowed her eyes further, and her dimples disappeared. “We both know why you came here today, and it was not to pledge devotion to my dimples. I’ve no idea why you’re suddenly so interested in charming me.” She tossed her head. “It won’t work, you know. I’m thoroughly immune to your charm.”

  This woman might require a lot of convincing.

  For the first time in his adult life, Nick actually began to doubt his powers of seduction.

  Perish that thought. You’re the master of seduction. Hedonistic Hatherly. The Wicked Marquess. One kiss and she’s yours.

  No, too obvious.

  The bigger challenge would be to awaken her sensuality. Make her want to kiss him.

  Instead of moving closer, he walked to a sofa and, ignoring all social protocol, sat in front of a standing lady.

  Seduction was nine-tenths anticipation.

  He spread his arms across the mahogany edge of one of Sir Alfred’s velvet sofas, drawing her eyes to the muscles he kept well-honed with fencing and riding.

  She helped herself to a long, lingering look.

  The pink flush in her cheeks deepened.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” he asked. He patted the velvet cushion next to him. “We’ll talk this through in comfort.”

  Warily, she seated herself as far from him as possible on the sofa—back straight, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed—all neatly folded up.

  “I’m sure you would prefer a more conventional and accommodating heiress,” she said. “What about Lady Melinda? She loves to swoon at your feet.” She clenched her hands together. “I’m decidedly peculiar. Everyone says so. You don’t want odd, ungracious me thrust upon you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Miss Tombs.” He settled back against the sofa, shifting his knees wider, increasing the heat in his gaze. “Having you thrust upon me could be quite entertaining.”

  Chapter 3

  Even young maids should study the Kama Sutra along with its arts and sciences before marriage. Some learned men object, and say that females, not being allowed to study any science, should not study the Kama Sutra. But this objection does not hold good.

  The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana

  It could be quite educational as well, thought Alice.

  Oh, the images his words conjured.

  Naughty images . . . wanton imaginings.

  Kshiraniraka, or milk and water embrace . . . the woman is sitting on the lap of the man . . .

  She’d translated those words from the Kama Sutra last night, working by the light of a single candle while
the household slept.

  They’d only been words upon a page . . . until now.

  Now there happened to be an enormous marquess sprawled next to her on a sofa, muscular arms spread wide like an invitation, whispering wickedly of having her thrust upon him.

  What, precisely, did that mean? It was quite difficult translating a text about a subject of which she had absolutely no firsthand experience.

  She couldn’t help being curious.

  Oh no, Alice. Remember where your curiosity leads? Remember when you were seven and you tasted that orange mushroom with the white spots? Missed the county fair. Sick and miserable for a whole week.

  She wasn’t seven anymore. And Lord Hatherly was far more appealing than a speckled mushroom . . . and probably far more dangerous to a girl’s wellbeing.

  It was the way he smiled, as if he had a secret.

  As if he were the secret.

  The answer to all her many questions.

  “What are you thinking about, Miss Tombs?” he asked in a deep, sonorous voice that harbored a rumble of amusement.

  Alice startled, blushing even harder. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” She struggled to calm her rapid breathing.

  Regain your composure this instant, Alice Perpetua Felicity Tombs, she admonished sternly. You don’t want to bed him, you want to bedevil him. Inspire him to leave and never come back.

  She was immune to his particular type of decadence.

  Well, wasn’t she? She risked a sideways glance.

  No one should have a jaw so chiseled or eyes so silver. It made her almost angry how handsome he was.

  His appearance is the only agreeable thing about him, and he can’t take credit for what God bestowed.

  Be rid of him quickly and thoroughly.

  She must marshal her thoughts to order. Lead the charge.

  Hunt the hunter.

  “Now then, Dimples,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you don’t wish to marry.”

  Had he called her Dimples? He was definitely going down in flames.

  She flipped through her mental list of peer-dispersing tactics, hitting upon one that, while not foolproof, could be effective in this situation.

  “It’s not that I don’t wish to marry, Lord Hatherly,” she said. “I don’t wish to marry you. There’s a difference. My affections are . . . promised elsewhere.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A secret engagement?”

  “Papa will cut me off if we marry, but the gentleman cares nothing for my fortune. He’s willing to marry me regardless of my prospects.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Alice searched her mind. “Darcy.” Oh, that was brilliant. Use a character from one of her favorite novels. But it had been the first name to come to mind.

  “Darcy?”

  “Professor Darcy. He’s handsome and cultured, and a perfect gentleman, though he has no title save that of professor. He wears sensible waistcoats, never red silk or patterned. He smokes a pipe after a meal, and he loves cats. Adores them. He allows my pet cat Kali to climb all over him.” You’re rambling, Alice. Wind it up now. “When we are married we will read together of an evening before the fire.”

  “What a charming picture—the professor and his young lady. Reading side by side, she, ignoring the foul odor of pipe tobacco, brushes cat hair from his sensible waistcoat. He proclaims that she has bewitched him, body and soul.”

  Alice jumped. Had he truly seen through her story so easily?

  And what was even more surprising, had he read the book?

  Hatherly’s smile was smug and overly confident. “There’s only one problem with your Professor Darcy. He doesn’t exist.”

  “He exists!” Well, he existed in her imagination. He was the kind, scholarly gentleman she dreamt of finding when she returned from India. Though he’d have to be at least a baronet to satisfy Mama.

  “Miss Tombs.” He shook his head. “What’s gotten into you? I know a fake fictitious fiancé when I hear of one. Men like your Professor Darcy simply don’t exist, and women’s boudoir novels have done womankind a grave disservice by suggesting that they do. You can’t have both the sophisticated gentleman of experience and the domesticated, solicitous spouse wrapped in one ardent package.”

  “Fine. You’ve caught me out, Lord Hatherly.” She infused her voice with the bitterness she felt when she thought of her lost voyage to India. “If I were plain, I wouldn’t be expected to fetch such a prize as you, you know. In some cultures I’d be considered downright unsightly. The Aegean countries, for example, would avoid my light greenish-blue eyes for fear they held the curse of the devil.”

  He laughed. “If you wish to avoid marriage, perhaps you should move to Greece.”

  “I can easily see how you and my father will benefit from our match. He gains your aristocratic business connections, and you keep Sunderland House. What I fail to see is how I’m to profit by it.”

  “I should think that’s obvious. You’ll be the Duchess of Barrington someday. A member of an elite group of the most privileged ladies in England.”

  “My mother and father are hungry for the title, not I. No one seems to care what I want.”

  “What do you want? Perhaps I can give it to you.” His voice dropped so low that her throat buzzed in response. “If you’ll allow me to try.”

  She wanted to follow the plan and board her father’s merchant ship bound for Calcutta in July, with the Kama Sutra and her grandfather’s other manuscripts safe in her trunks.

  India! She could already see it in her mind’s eye: a riot of orange and red silks, domed temples glinting in the sun, heat shimmering from the streets, the fragrant scent of saffron.

  Only she wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not with Fred married and staying in France.

  She couldn’t tell Lord Hatherly about her shattered dreams.

  He’d only give that mocking laugh and smile his smug smile.

  Brush her dreams aside like castles made of sand instead of a solid bulwark she’d built stone by stone, word by word.

  Women were mere amusements to him. He’d probably never even considered they might want something other than pleasing a man.

  His brow wrinkled slightly. “Miss Tombs?”

  “You don’t wish to marry me, Lord Hatherly,” she said. “I’m notoriously peculiar. Have I told you about my devotion to a frugivorous diet? After reading the writings of Mr. Shelley I decided to give up eating—”

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he interrupted.

  Alice paused in mid-explanation. “What am I doing, pray tell?”

  “Putting on an act. Saying outrageous things to make me run away. Why don’t you try being yourself for a moment? Tell me the truth,” he coaxed. “Why don’t you want to marry?”

  Had her powers of dissuasion finally failed her?

  She’d been so very successful at eliminating suitors, and Lord Hatherly shouldn’t be such a difficult case.

  It was only that she couldn’t think straight when he sat so close. Near enough to smell the sweet sherry on his lips and an underlying aroma of cedar, like the inside of her trousseau trunk.

  He hadn’t doused himself in musky cologne like Lord White.

  Why did he have to be so devastatingly attractive? It muddled a girl’s mind.

  One of his large hands rested close to her on the sofa.

  What depraved things had those hands done recently? The thought started a curious fizzing sensation in her lower belly, like she was a jar of apple cider left in the sun too long.

  “I want to know the real Miss Alice Tombs.” He caught her hand and lifted her wrist to his ear, as if listening for her pulse. “What has made you so prickly?” His breath tickled the inside of her wrist. “And why don’t you wish to marry?”

  She wasn’t prepared for the jolting sensation that rocked through her body when he flipped her hand over, stroking her palm with one rough-padded fingertip, and kissed her palm.

  A crackli
ng. Like sliding her stockinged feet across a carpet. A charge of energy from her fingertips through the ends of her hair.

  “You want to know who I am, Lord Hatherly?” She snatched her hand away. “I’m the one lady on this earth who is thoroughly immune to your powers of seduction.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Really.” Maybe if she repeated it enough, it might begin to be true. “And there’s no use in you seeking to convince me to marry you. I won’t wed until after I have at least one exciting adventure abroad.”

  The truth just slipped out.

  She waited for the disbelieving laughter, the cold light of derision in his eyes, but he appeared to be absorbing her confession with gravity.

  “Then why haven’t you embarked on a tour before now?”

  “My mother feels that females should not be allowed to stray from hearth and home. Our place is at the heart of the circle of domestic bliss. Providers, nurturers subjugated by the needs of others. She wants me wed and with child immediately.”

  “Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “And you have other plans.”

  For some reason she felt compelled to tell him the truth. Why? Maybe it was because he hadn’t laughed at her or acted shocked.

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “My mother lives abroad—in Switzerland at the moment. My parents’ marriage is . . . not a happy one.” While his knowing smile never faltered, there was a momentary flicker of emotion in his eyes, but it was gone before Alice could pinpoint what it had been.

  Pain? Regret?

  Alice didn’t know what to say in response. She’d heard the rumors of his father’s madness, but the duke rarely left Sunderland House.

  Could there be a deeper reason behind Lord Hatherly’s dissipated lifestyle? A reason to forget himself in all the wine, women, and wickedness?

  “Where do you wish to go?” he asked.

  “I will journey to Calcutta in India.”

  “An unusual choice for a young lady. But your family has ties to the East India Company, is that why?”

  “Partially. It’s also because I have a talent for languages and among them, Sanskrit. I’m working on a translation of an ancient manuscript I discovered in my late grandfather’s personal collection.”