“That’s right.” How could he have forgotten? Marcus hadn’t been the instigator here, either. “Now that I think about it, it wasn’t you doing the dragging—it was Miss Hutting.” He shook his head. “The scheming minx. She had it all planned.”
Marcus glared at him. If looks could kill, Nate would be measuring his length on the carpet.
“Er, Nate,” Alex said, shifting on his uncomfortable chair, “you might want to sit down and relax.” He snorted. “Not that a fellow can relax on this infernal furniture. It manages to be both hard and lumpy, and it’s proportioned for some giant with dwarf legs.”
“You will not speak ill of Miss Hutting,” Marcus said, his eyes narrowed, teeth—and hands—clenched.
Did Marcus wish to fight? Good. They hadn’t come to blows in years, but at the moment Nate would welcome the chance to pummel his cousin. “So she didn’t drag you into the bushes?”
“I say, isn’t it time for supper?” Alex smiled bravely.
They ignored him.
“Of course she didn’t drag me into the bushes.”
“Then why the hell were you in there with her?”
Marcus glanced away. “She merely wished some privacy to discuss the Spinster House.”
A woman did not do something as scandalous as disappear into the foliage with a man simply to discuss her living arrangements, unless those arrangements included the fellow’s regular visits to her bedchamber—and he could not believe Marcus was thinking to set up the vicar’s daughter as his mistress. That was too bizarre a plan even for a curse-addled brain.
No, trips to the shrubbery were far from innocent. His trip with Miss Davenport, for example—
He shoved Miss Davenport from his thoughts.
“And nothing else occurred?” he asked. He couldn’t help himself. He needed Marcus to admit what he’d done.
Marcus blinked, and when he looked at Nate again, his eyes were shuttered. “No. What would have occurred? I told you Miss Hutting is determined to be the next Spinster House spinster.”
God! Nate felt as if a fist had slammed into his stomach. Something in Marcus’s voice or face made it clear: his cousin was lying.
Marcus had never lied to him before.
Marcus flushed and looked down quickly as if checking his hands for soot.
Nate was suddenly blindingly angry. Marcus knew he was playing with fire. A sensible man would recognize the danger and take steps to avoid it. Females and shrubbery were a lethal combination. Look at what had happened to him when he’d gone into the Spinster House garden with Miss Davenport. What had started simply as a means to avoid scandal had ended up with him on the ground, his hands on Miss Davenport’s arse and his tongue in her mouth. If he hadn’t come to his senses, he’d have had her skirts around her ears and his pantaloons around his ankles, his cock—
Zeus! And he wasn’t subject to Isabelle Dorring’s curse.
Society told young virgins they shouldn’t be alone with a man, but that was really for the man’s protection. Those marriageable maidens were temptresses, luring a poor fellow into all sorts of indiscretions—and thus into parson’s mousetrap.
Which, for Marcus, was the door to his grave.
“Good God, Marcus, do I have to put a leash on you, then?”
Alex gave a long, low whistle, causing Nate to really look at his cousin. Marcus’s lips had thinned, and his eyes had narrowed to slits. He was furious.
The shock of that brought Nate’s own ire up short.
Perhaps he had overstepped his bounds with that last bit.
“Forgive me. It’s just that I worry.”
Marcus sighed and relaxed, coming over to grip Nate’s shoulder. “I know you worry, Nate. I worry, too. I’ve not forgotten about the curse. Believe me, I can’t forget. It weighs on me every moment of every day. But you have to give me the freedom to live my life.”
He’d like to do that.
When they were young, keeping Marcus safe had seemed so simple. If the other boys whispered or teased, he could bloody a few noses or administer a set-down and be done with it. Even when they’d first gone up to London, he’d had little trouble. Back then he could trust Marcus to avoid dangerous situations. But since his cousin had turned thirty, it was harder and harder to protect him, especially now that the man insisted on going into the bushes with anything in skirts.
“The bloody curse doesn’t give you that freedom, does it?” he said.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t, but I don’t need to be hemmed in by you as well.” Marcus smiled, though his eyes were still guarded. “Trust me, you do not have to worry about Miss Hutting. As I’ve told you several times, she most ardently desires to be the next Spinster House spinster, not the next Duchess of Hart. She will be delighted if she draws the short lot tomorrow and wins the house.”
Nate got the distinct impression that Marcus, however, would not be so happy. Blast. “Then I shall pray—fervently—for her success.”
Marcus flinched, but the reaction was so quick, Nate couldn’t be certain he’d seen it.
“Come, sit down on this terrible furniture and finish your brandy, Nate,” Marcus said. “I have a request to make of you.”
Nate grimaced as he let himself down gingerly onto the settee. “A request?” Damnation. Alex was smirking. This could not be good.
Marcus nodded. “It turns out Mr. Wattles—or rather, the new Duke of Benton—was filling in for a Mr. Luntley, the village music teacher, while the man was off tending to his elderly mother. Benton had agreed to play at Miss Mary Hutting’s wedding festivities, which are just a little more than a week away, but now he and Mr. Luntley are both gone. As you might imagine, Mrs. Hutting is, ah, not best pleased and asked if I might know someone who could play the pianoforte.”
Oh, Lord, he could see where this was heading.
“Nate plays quite well, don’t you, Nate?” Alex’s smirk had grown into an annoyingly large grin.
Nate sighed. “I supposed you volunteered me?”
“No. I volunteered to ask you. You are free to decline. In fact, I said you might be off walking the Lake District, but of course she got her hopes up.”
“You’re going walking as well, aren’t you?” Nate leaned forward, alarm vibrating through him again. “Once the Spinster House spinster is chosen, you’re free.” And I’ll be free to leave the temptation of Miss Davenport.
The sinking in his gut felt more like disappointment than relief.
Marcus picked an invisible speck off his pantaloons. “I may not be going walking. You and Alex have persuaded me I need to take more of an interest in the estate.”
“You’re planning to stay in Loves Bridge?” Zeus, he’d almost shouted the words, but what had been alarm was now full-fledged panic. There must be something between Marcus and Miss Hutting. There was no other explanation for his cousin’s sudden desire to remain at the estate he had shunned for twenty years.
Marcus was still inspecting his pantaloons. “Very likely.”
“You can’t. I mean, only consider . . .” Nate fisted his hands on his thighs. “It must be Miss Hutting,” he muttered, shaking his head. “These Loves Bridge women are far, far worse than their London sisters.”
Alex had got up to refill his brandy glass, but he paused, the decanter partially tipped, and raised one dratted eyebrow. “These Loves Bridge women? I thought you were only discussing Miss Hutting.”
“As did I,” Marcus said, both his brows raised.
“I was.” Lord, that was all he needed. Marcus was busy with his own problems, but if Alex got wind of his—his whatever it was with Miss Davenport, there would be no bearing it. Alex wasn’t cruel, but he didn’t know when to leave off jesting.
He could lay this at Miss Hutting’s door, too. If she hadn’t lured Marcus into the bushes, Nate wouldn’t have had his own leafy encounter. He would still be indifferent to Miss Davenport—
Well, all right, he hadn’t been precisely indifferent before, but he was still
determined that nothing would come of his odd feelings. However, if Marcus stayed in Loves Bridge, Nate would have to stay, too. That would make everything more difficult.
Alex finished pouring his drink. “Interested in Miss Davenport, are you, Nate?” he said as he went back to his seat.
Unfortunately, Nate had taken a sip of brandy, which then went up his nose. He gasped and coughed.
“Are you all right?” Marcus asked.
Nate hadn’t yet recovered his powers of speech, so he merely nodded—and glared at Alex.
“You didn’t think I missed the way you stood dumbfounded when you opened the door for her the other day at Cupid’s Inn, did you?” The blackguard laughed. “I believe Loves Bridge is going to prove far more entertaining than the Lake District or London.”
“Stubble it, Alex,” Marcus said.
For once, Nate was in complete agreement with his cousin.
Chapter Four
Papa is on the verge of offering for Mrs. Eaton.
Anne strode under a blue and cloudless sky from Cupid’s Inn, where she’d left her gig, toward the Spinster House. In just a few minutes, she would draw lots to see if she would be the next Spinster House spinster.
She’d overheard Mr. and Mrs. Bigley talking early this morning. They thought Papa would pop the question sometime in the next few weeks and marry Mrs. Eaton shortly thereafter. As Mrs. Bigley had said, there was no point in waiting. Neither of them was getting any younger.
Oh, God! As soon as the end of next month, Davenport Hall could have a new mistress and two little boys running wild through it. Papa would have a new family.
And Anne would be very much in the way.
I have to win the Spinster House.
“Early, I see.”
Anne blinked, coming out of her reverie to notice Jane standing on the pavement a few feet in front of her. “You’re early, too.”
Jane snorted. “I wasn’t about to wait at home.” She nodded toward the Spinster House. “Randolph is in there, getting the lots ready. I told him to make certain the drawing could not be manipulated to favor one candidate over another.” She scowled. “Or to disfavor. I wouldn’t put it past him to arrange things so I don’t win.”
Randolph was Jane’s brother and the village solicitor. His firm Wilkinson, Wilkinson, and Wilkinson—though there was only one Wilkinson now—had overseen the Spinster House since Isabelle Dorring’s time.
Jane looked over at the vicarage. “I’m surprised Cat isn’t here, too.”
“Maybe she’s not coming.” Anne felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps the duke had offered for Cat in the bushes last night, because if Cat were still interested in the Spinster House, she’d be here right beside them.
Jane’s eyebrows shot up. “What?! Why wouldn’t Cat be coming?”
“Oh, er, I don’t know. I just—”
Jane grabbed her shoulders. “Anne Elizabeth Davenport, you tell me right now why you think Cat would not still be interested in being the next Spinster House spinster.”
Jane could be very determined and, well, the secret was rather burning a hole in her chest. And Jane was Cat’s friend, too. What could be the harm?
“I saw her go into the trysting bushes with the duke yesterday evening.”
Jane sucked in her breath. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I wouldn’t make up such a thing.” Anne shifted her shoulders. “Will you let go?”
Jane dropped her hands. “I wonder what it means.”
“Perhaps it means she’s going to be a duchess.” Though there was that London girl whom the duke had lured into the bushes and then refused to wed. But surely he would not be so bold as to take liberties with Cat! Still, she shouldn’t get her hopes up. “Or perhaps it means nothing.”
“Nothing? Ha! You know nothing is not what happens in those trysting bushes. Cat’s sisters made good use of them when they were hunting for husbands.” Jane looked across the road to the bushes in question as if she could discern what had happened in their shadows by the arrangement of their leaves.
“Cat has always said she doesn’t want to be a wife.”
“She doesn’t want to be Mr. Barker’s wife.” Jane snorted. “Who would? But the duke is a different matter entirely. He’s handsome, educated, wealthy—and he doesn’t smell as if he’s been mucking around in manure all day. He’d be an excellent match for Cat.”
That was precisely what Anne thought.
“Did you hear any gossip about them when you left the gig at Cupid’s Inn just now?” Jane asked.
“N-no.” Oh, dear. If Cat was indeed betrothed, her mother would have wasted no time in getting the word out. The entire village knew how much Mrs. Hutting worried that her oldest daughter would never marry. And though Mrs. Hutting, being the vicar’s wife, didn’t put a great quantity of stock in things of this world, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t gloat a little over Cat landing such a lofty peer. So, no, there must not be a betrothal.
Jane was scowling. “The duke has to know he can’t trifle with Cat. She’s the vicar’s daughter!”
“Yes. Unless he’s reluctant to propose because of the curse.” Though he shouldn’t have been in the bushes with Cat in that case.
Jane looked at her as if she were a complete noddy. “You don’t believe that superstitious nonsense, do you?”
“N-no.” But even Papa hadn’t totally discounted it. “Though it does seem odd that every duke since Isabelle Dorring’s time has died before his heir was born.”
Jane flicked her fingers at her. “Mere coincidence. And people died younger in those unenlightened times.” She looked at her pocket watch. “It’s almost time. Let’s go in.”
She glanced back at the vicarage as she started up the walk to the Spinster House. “If Cat has decided she would rather be a duchess”—she smiled rather tightly at Anne—“that leaves just the two of us in contention.”
“Yes.” Anne matched steps with Jane. Perhaps whatever had happened in the trysting bushes had changed Cat’s mind about marriage. Anne’s own interlude in the foliage had been extremely . . . unsettling.
“I hope you understand that I must win the Spinster House,” Jane said. “I cannot abide living one more day with Randolph.”
Jane always had been a bit self-centered.
“I realize Randolph can be maddening, Jane, but I think you must agree my need is greater. In a matter of weeks, my father will marry Mrs. Eaton and move her and her two little hellions into Davenport Hall. I’ll no longer be in charge of the household. I’ll b-be—” She swallowed and then took a deep breath to regain her composure—and scowled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m saddled with the woman’s children, made to be their governess or nursemaid.”
Jane paused with her hand on the latch. “Your father has offered for her, then, and been accepted?”
“N-no. But I heard the Bigleys discussing it this morning, and you know how the servants are always aware of everything that is happening in a family.”
Jane sniffed and jerked the door open. “Actually, I don’t know.”
Oh, right. Randolph was too parsimonious to hire more than Mrs. Dorn, an older, rather sour woman who was a maid-of-all-work. She did some cleaning, some laundry, and some cooking, none of it particularly well. Everything else fell to Jane.
“There you are,” Randolph said as they came in. He looked a bit harried. “Have a seat. I’m sure Cat and the duke will be along shortly.”
“Cat has changed her mind,” Jane said. “She’s not coming.”
Randolph frowned. “Why would you say that? She seemed very determined just a few days ago.”
Jane turned to Anne. “Tell him what you saw.” She looked back at her brother. “Once you hear what Anne has to say, you’ll realize Cat has had a change of heart.” Jane sniffed. “Or if she hasn’t, she should be disqualified.”
Anne gasped. She hadn’t thought of Cat being disqualified.
“What?” Randolph scowled at Jane and then
at Anne. “Are you daft? The only way Cat could be disqualified is if she were married, which you know very well she is not. And you also know the duke doesn’t wish to deviate one letter from the terms of Isabelle Dorring’s directives.” He looked at Anne. “If His Grace doesn’t follow each step precisely, he risks sudden death.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Anne couldn’t help it—she laughed. Good Lord, did Randolph think her an idiot? To imagine that an educated man like the Duke of Hart would believe he was fated to die before his heir was born was hard enough, but to also accept he thought he’d drop dead if he didn’t do exactly as instructed by some long-deceased woman . . . It was ludicrous.
“I’m afraid it’s no laughing matter, Anne,” Randolph said.
“But you’re a solicitor. Surely you don’t believe in such magical goings-on.”
“Whether I believe in them or not, I must follow Isabelle Dorring’s—my client’s—instructions.” He looked at Jane. “As my sister so vehemently pointed out just the other day when we were going over the details in my office.”
“That was different,” Jane said. “The duke thought he could ignore the process completely.” She looked at Anne. “He would have handed Cat the keys outright if I hadn’t spoken up.”
Anne gasped. She’d had no idea how close she’d been to disaster.
“Which I wouldn’t have been able to do if I’d been out running the silly errand Randolph tried to send me on.” Jane looked back at her brother. “Isabelle would care about this, Randolph. Go on. Tell him, Anne.”
She didn’t truly wish to spread tales, but . . . but if Cat wasn’t betrothed and there actually was a curse of some sort, perhaps she should share the story. The woman who’d been wronged by the duke’s ancestor might not wish Cat to live in the house if Cat was on, er, exceedingly friendly terms with the current Duke of Hart.
“Yesterday evening,” she said, “I was looking around the Spinster House grounds, and I saw Cat go into the trysting bushes with the duke.”
Of course, if Isabelle Dorring cares about antics in shrubbery, she might not be too pleased with me, either.
How to Manage a Marquess Page 5
