Wagered to the Duke (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Karen Lingefelt

  “I’m doing just fine, Mr. Fraser.” She always gave him a smile, not wanting him to see how much she dreaded getting back inside that dark stage with all those strangers and even stranger odors. She wondered why he didn’t just hire another carriage. What sort of duke was he?

  At least he always smiled back. “Are you ready to return home yet?”

  “Not at all.” And that was the truth.

  “Would you care for some lemonade, or even a pasty?” She noticed he ate the meat-filled pastry at every stop they made.

  “Yes, please.” Guilt lanced her at the knowledge that he was paying for her room, board, and even her transportation when he was under no obligation to do so. Yet she didn’t dare tell him the truth for fear he might use that as grounds to put her on another stage going in the opposite direction.

  She always thanked him for buying her food and drink, and his reply was always, “’Tis nothing.” Perhaps it was, since he was a very wealthy duke.

  They would slowly walk back to the coach in silence, and with each step she told herself, Tell him! Tell him the truth!

  But it was the one thing she couldn’t bring herself to say to him.

  And so it went until they finally made a stop at dusk. Before she had the chance to go in search of a necessary, he approached her and in an undertone said, “We’ll stay here for the night. If there’s anything you want to say, say it now.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  He widened his own eyes. They seemed to gleam in the golden light spilling out of the mullioned windows of the coaching inn, and she thought she felt her knees buckling, or maybe that was from having been crammed in the coach all day. “Because once we’re inside, I believe it would be in your best interests as well as mine if you remain silent while I bespeak our rooms. I intend to tell them you’re my sister, same as last night, so unless you can mimic my rather unique accent, and I fancy few people can, I strongly suggest you remain in your room, taking your supper there, and above all keep your lips sealed until morning.”

  He had a point. They’d been lucky last night. A respectable innkeeper was not likely to give them rooms if he suspected for even a moment that they weren’t married or siblings. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment that Nathan insisted on pretending to be the latter.

  Only why should she feel that pang at all? Wasn’t she accustomed by now to being treated by men as anything other than a marriage prospect? No doubt if he’d been traveling with a child, he would’ve insisted to the innkeeper that Kate was the child’s governess.

  He nudged into her reverie. “Will you agree to that, Miss Hathaway?”

  He did have a point, blast it. And if she really wanted to make it to London, then, “I agree, Mr. Fraser.”

  He’d take her to London, only on the condition that she remain mute and, if at all possible, invisible.

  * * * *

  Out of sight, out of mind was just a great big load of rubbish, Nathan thought as he lay awake in bed that night.

  All day long, riding on top of the coach, watching the scenery as the moors and heaths of Yorkshire gradually gave way to the undulating hills and peaks of Derbyshire, he’d been unable to think of anything but the harridan riding directly beneath him.

  Now there was a thought. And what a thought! He thought he might like the idea of her riding directly beneath him in another fashion. Or was that only because when he’d kissed her this morning, he’d felt something he didn’t think he’d ever felt before? Only what had he felt?

  It certainly hadn’t been revulsion. She certainly hadn’t felt revulsion. Even now he could still feel her softening in his embrace, yielding to his hard body, a part of which started growing even harder at the memory.

  For the umpteenth time, he told himself that she was not the woman for him. Who was Margaret Hathaway, but the sister of a dandified wastrel? Maybe if she’d been the daughter of a duke, like Nathan had been the son of a duke, it might have been different. He might well have married her immediately, and never mind Aunt Verity’s plans for a ball like—what had Miss Hathaway said? Cinderella.

  He was only vaguely acquainted with the story of Cinderella. She’d been the girl least likely to marry a prince—rather like Miss Hathaway herself. A girl plucked from obscurity, with nothing to recommend her—again, rather like Miss Hathaway.

  No, it wasn’t going to be that kind of ball. Aunt Verity said all the girls who were coming were from the best families in the ton, and she knew them all. If Nathan recalled correctly, no one at the prince’s ball had had the slightest notion of who Cinderella was—not even her own, more eligible stepsisters.

  In the meantime, his plan was to continue traveling on the stage and let others think they were siblings, even if it meant that for overnight stops she had to remain cloistered in her room and not speak to anyone, no matter how unpleasant that had to be for someone as garrulous as she was. He could easily afford to hire a private carriage, but he was determined not to make things too enjoyable for her. Sooner or later, she would realize that just because he was a duke didn’t mean that she should expect to be treated as his prospective duchess, and she would demand to go back to Leeds.

  One thing he would not do was abandon her anywhere, the way her brother had. The way his own brother had done to Nathan.

  He stiffened as he thought he heard a moan in the room next door. Miss Hathaway had the room next door. He hoped she wasn’t in pain. That was all he needed—for her to fall ill and—he heard the moan again.

  That didn’t sound like a moan of pain. It definitely sounded like a woman, but—there it was again. Only it wasn’t coming from Miss Hathaway’s room, but the room on the other side. And then he heard a steady creaking and thumping in rhythm to the moans.

  Nathan didn’t moan, but he did groan in frustration. Why tonight, of all nights, did he have to hear that?

  Chapter Eight

  Around noon the next day, the stage stopped at a posting house, where everyone disembarked to lunch and stretch and, in the case of one drunken buck who’d been riding topside with Nathan and Bilby, to retch.

  Because of the newest arrivals, there was limited seating space at the long trestle table in the dining room. Nathan managed to get a seat for Kate and went to the parlor to wait for an empty seat of his own.

  When she’d had her fill, she emerged from the dining room and nearly collided with him. “There’s an empty seat now.”

  “Splendid. By the way, are you perchance acquainted with a Mr. Swingle from London?”

  Kate knit her brow in bewilderment, for she did not know a Mr. Swingle…and yet the name struck a vaguely familiar chord deep inside her, as if she’d heard that name very, very recently, but couldn’t quite place it.

  Nathan lowered his voice. “He’s in the parlor, and says he’s on his way to Leeds to marry a Miss Hathaway. Is he betrothed to one of your younger sisters?”

  “Oh!” Kate jumped and shrieked as if she’d just been pinched.

  Somewhere in between her sobs and sniffles two days ago, Meg had gasped something about a Mr. Swingle who was on his way to Leeds to marry her.

  “Then I take it you’re acquainted with him?” Nathan asked.

  “Yes, only he’s betrothed to—to—” Oh, why hadn’t she told him the truth about who she really was when she had the chance?

  Well, she had the chance now, didn’t she?

  His face clouded like the skies over the Yorkshire moors, and he arched a dubious brow. “Don’t tell me he’s betrothed to you.”

  She bristled. “And why should you not believe that? Is it because I look as if I should be someone’s governess—or even someone’s sister—instead of someone’s bride?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “No, it’s just that I thought the Miss Hathaway he described bore little resemblance to the Miss Hathaway of my own acquaintance. But if you’re betrothed to him, then why did you insist on coming with me and honoring your brother’s debt ins
tead of waiting for Mr. Swingle?”

  Oh, dear. Panic seized her. Think, Kate. Think!

  Nathan unfolded his arms and held up an index finger. “Let me guess. You don’t really want to marry him, so you see me as the means to escape from an unwanted marriage.”

  Kate darted her eyes all around the lobby, as if she might find a better explanation hanging on the wall or even in midair, but as plausible explanations didn’t hang conveniently on public walls or from ceilings, or even grow on trees, Nathan’s conjecture would simply have to do. In fact, it would do quite nicely.

  “I think I have every reason to harbor second thoughts about it,” she finally said.

  “So you are betrothed to him?”

  His persistent skepticism nettled her. “He told you himself, did he not? Do you doubt the gentleman’s word?”

  “No, just his sanity,” Nathan retorted. “Still, I think you should go and talk to him—he’s just across the way in the parlor there—and listen to what he has to say. You may find your jitters are all for naught, and that you do want to marry him, after all.”

  Kate didn’t doubt that Nathan was hoping for just that and that he saw this as a heaven-sent opportunity to be rid of her once and for all.

  He leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “And you needn’t worry. I haven’t told him a thing. In fact, I didn’t even let on that I know you. You can tell him that you were traveling with a friend who suddenly eloped with another guest at the inn last night, and—well, you seem bright enough to come up with a good Banbury tale.”

  “Why, thank you for the compliment. I’m pleased you found I’m not without at least one redeeming quality.” And with that she swept past him to the parlor.

  She could scarcely believe this incredible stroke of luck, even if her lugubrious alter ego was the only one who would benefit. She could tell Mr. Swingle where to find Meg, and they could be reunited and live happily ever after.

  For it was only right that someone around here should live happily ever after.

  She crept into the parlor. It was nearly empty, which wasn’t so surprising since it seemed as if the rest of the world was crammed into that dining room. A young man with fine, reddish-gold hair sat near the fireplace.

  “Mr. Swingle?” she inquired, her voice soft and tentative, so as not to startle him, because she did have a way of startling and sometimes even frightening people, to include herself.

  Indeed, he looked at her as if he feared she might bear evil tidings, or even his by-blow. He stood up. “Yes? I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

  “We haven’t. I only wish to give you a very important message about your betrothed, Miss Margaret Hathaway.”

  “Are you a friend of Meg’s?”

  After what she’d witnessed day before yesterday, Kate thought that even with a few minutes’ acquaintance, she might well be the only friend Margaret Hathaway had. “You might say I am the friend of hers. My name is Katherine Baxter.”

  He gave a polite nod. “How do you do, Miss Baxter?”

  “I do just fine, Mr. Swingle.” Sensing another presence nearby, she stole a glance at the parlor doorway, but no one lurked there. She thought she’d glimpsed a shadow flitting from behind her, but maybe it was just a cloud sliding across the sun that streamed through the mullioned window.

  “What important message do you have for me, Miss Baxter? Is Miss Hathaway all right? Never tell me she’s ill!”

  “Oh, she’s perfectly fine, though she does pine for you. But I was wondering if you were aware she’s no longer residing in Leeds?”

  His pale-orange brows knit together in dismay. “Where is she?”

  Kate opened her reticule. “She’s in York.”

  “Whatever is she doing there? Didn’t she get my letter? I wrote to her that I was on my way to Leeds to marry her!”

  “And she still means to marry you, Mr. Swingle. Rest assured she’s only working as a governess until you arrive to make her your wife.”

  “Working!” Mr. Swingle exclaimed, and Kate immediately rued her choice of verb.

  She drew a folded piece of paper from her reticule and handed it to him. “Here is the direction in York. She’s in the employ of a Mr. Throckmorton.”

  “Employ!” he burst out, as if being in someone’s employ was somehow even worse than working.

  “I’m afraid she was compelled to take the position because of her brother’s gambling debts.”

  “Freddy!” Mr. Swingle scowled and jerked one fist down as if pounding it on an invisible head. Freddy’s head. Kate fully empathized, feeling as if she’d just found a kindred spirit.

  Clutching the piece of paper, he paced back and forth in front of the hearth. “I love Meg, but if there is one thing that would stop me from marrying her, it’s her wastrel brother. I fear he would always be coming to me for help with his debts!” Mr. Swingle also said that last word as if it were a curse. “That my dear angel should be forced to work for a living because of that—that—oh, you must forgive me, Miss Baxter, but I fear I cannot think of a single word I can say in front of a lady.”

  “I can well imagine, sir. But the sooner you can reach York and Mr. Throckmorton’s house, the better. In fact, you should leave now.” Before Nathan returned and learned a truth even uglier than the one Mr. Swingle had just heard.

  “I would, but I’m traveling by stage and must abide by its schedule.” He raked long, bony fingers through his hair in agitation then suddenly halted his pacing and held up an index finger, as if he had a sudden epiphany. “But I could hire a mount.”

  “Then hire one!” Before Nathan came back!

  “I suppose I could.” He stroked his chin. “To think my beloved has been reduced to working for wages!”

  “Dreadful, isn’t it? But I’m afraid she had no choice. Well, she did, but the alternative was even worse.”

  He impaled her with a sharp look. “What was the alternative?”

  Kate balked. If he was shocked by the very notion of his beloved working as a governess, then heaven only knew how violently he might react upon being informed of the alternative.

  “Is it unspeakable, Miss Baxter?” Dread weighted his voice and creased his brow. “Would she have been—oh, I fear I cannot say the word in front of a lady, for a lady should never know such a thing, let alone experience it.”

  Kate lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m afraid her brother wagered her in a game of cards, Mr. Swingle, and lost.”

  She stepped back as he clutched a hand to his chest. His eyes rolled, and not in the way Kate’s did when she’d been told something utterly absurd. No, Mr. Swingle looked as if he might faint. She’d never thought men could do that.

  “Rest assured her honor remains above reproach,” she hastily added, in hopes that would prevent him from keeling over to the floor.

  “How?” His voice cracked with disbelief as now he clutched the back of the armchair. “Is that how she acquired the governess position? Freddy wagered her to this Mr.—Mr.”—he glanced down at the scrap of paper she’d given him—“Throckmorton? And I’m to believe she’s now his governess?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Swingle, it’s not like that at all!”

  “I should say it’s not like that at all! Don’t you see, Miss Baxter? She may think she’s going with Mr. Throckmorton to be a governess to his children, and you may think she’s going with him to be a governess to his children, but I think she’s going with him to be something else entirely, and that there are no children and certainly no Mrs. Throckmorton.”

  “’Tis true there’s no Mrs. Throckmorton, but—”

  “Aha! And why do you think there’s no Mrs. Throckmorton, Miss Baxter?”

  Puzzled by his failure to grasp the obvious, she said, “Well, because she passed away.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you see? No, you cannot see, for if you are a friend of my beloved Meg—”

  “The friend,” Kate pointlessly corrected him.

  “—then
you cannot possibly begin to fathom what I must know for certain now! She is ruined! My beloved Meg is ruined!” Mr. Swingle collapsed into the armchair and leaned his elbows on his knees as he hid his face in his hands.

  Kate hoped to God he wouldn’t start crying. She would almost rather he fainted. “Mr. Swingle, it’s not like that at all. Please allow me to explain. I’m the one who was supposed to go to Mr. Throckmorton’s. My mother was friends with his late wife, and when she heard he was seeking a governess for his poor motherless children, she recommended me as I’m a spinster who’s high on the shelf now and even looks like a governess by most accounts. She even mentioned that maybe Mr. Throckmorton would in time promote me from governess to wife, but I did not wish such a fate for myself. So I traded places with Meg.”

  He lifted his head from his hands. Kate didn’t want to look at his face for fear she might see some moisture seeping out from somewhere, but she forced herself to look anyway. Thank heavens he wasn’t leaking anywhere!

  “You traded places with Meg?” he asked, his voice low and—and—this was the only word Kate could think of—ominous. At least it wasn’t choked with sobs.

  “She didn’t want to go to this other man with whom Freddy played cards. She loves you and wants to marry you, Mr. Swingle. Therefore, since I wasn’t too keen on becoming a governess or even the wife of a much older widower with a passel of children, I offered to trade places with her. Be assured her honor remains intact.”

  “Then that makes you—” He sat back in the chair as a disturbing light flickered in his pale-blue eyes. “That makes you—oh, but you’re not really a lady now, are you, so I can say it. That makes you a lightskirt!”

  Kate might have thought she’d heard him wrong, but why did that last word send her reeling back as if it were a palpable force? “Did you just call me a—a—”

  “A lightskirt, Miss Baxter.”

  Heavens. Was it only yesterday she’d wished that, just once for a change, someone would compare her to a lightskirt instead of a governess? Well, someone just had. So why didn’t it feel as refreshing as she’d thought it would?