The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2)

by Meara Platt

  “She won’t.”

  “How can you be sure?” Once again, she started for Lady Withnall, but he held her back. “What’s the matter with you, Ian? You can’t let her hurt you like this. You’ve never taken advantage of me. Quite the opposite, you’ve been a perfect gentleman. And you’ve never harmed anyone or stolen any infants. Why won’t you allow me to defend you?”

  “I’m asking you to leave it alone. You’re not my friend,” he said with a quiet determination that made her heart catch in her throat.

  “But—”

  “Leave it alone, Daffy.” That said, he strode to the opposite end of the kitchen to retrieve his coat from Mrs. Mayhew, and then strode out without a backward glance at her.

  Dillie turned to the slightly open window, needing the draft to cool the heat of her anger. Lady Withnall wasn’t the only object of her ire. She was just as angry with Ian for holding her back, for refusing to defend himself. Mostly, she was angry with herself. She had allowed Ian to get to her heart. For a moment, she’d believed that he actually cared for her, but he only knew how to push people away. Is that why his family despised him?

  Still, she’d hoped that she mattered to him a little. He’d just made it painfully clear that she didn’t.

  The clunch!

  CHAPTER 8

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Ian’s carriage drew up in front of the Belgrave Square townhouse his mother and cousins had let for the season. It was a large house, built of gray stone, and had lots of windows to allow in sunlight. The drapes were drawn, of course, for his mother hated the sun’s glare. It exposed her physical flaws, those hideous age spots that she strove so mightily to conceal.

  He descended from his carriage and walked up the stairs to the front door, a large, wooden door that was painted a bright, garish red, like the rouge his mother had taken to painting on her cheeks in the mistaken belief she would appear young and ruddy cheeked. She was wrong. She was aging, and not well.

  It was on the early side, not quite noon. He had decided to pay his mother this unannounced visit in the hope of surprising her. Not in a good way. Their encounters were never friendly, though he was always cordial to her. She was the one who tensed and bristled, and then attacked. She wanted nothing to do with him. Had she known of his arrival, she would have slipped out the back way.

  The meeting was necessary. He needed answers about that November attack. He also needed to rein in his mother. He was used to her venomous words and no longer cared about the insults hurled at him. But he wouldn’t allow her to insult Felicity. Truly, this was a new low even for his mother, stooping to destroy a defenseless infant.

  Hence the reason for his visit. The cold, proud Duchess Celestia was never that brave when forced to speak to him in private.

  He decided to discuss the November attack first, for it was uppermost on his mind. He didn’t think his mother had come up with the scheme, but she must have approved of it. His cousins would not have paid those wharf rats to come after him without consulting her first.

  Why attempt to kill him? There was nothing to be gained. Neither Simon nor Edmund cared to work, and they ought to have been satisfied with the allowance he gave to each. Had he not been generous enough with them? He set aside the thought as the door opened and a butler stepped forward.

  Ian usually gave only passing notice to servants, but this man caught his attention. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the shape of his eyes or their unusual color, brown with flecks of amber. The man appeared to be about fifty years old. He had a trim build, graying hair, and an unmistakable air of refinement.

  “Your Grace,” he said with a respectful bow, obviously recognizing him though he hadn’t presented his card. Perhaps he’d noted the Markham family emblem engraved on his carriage door.

  When he introduced himself as Badger, Ian wanted to ask the man whether they’d ever met before but dismissed the notion. Why should he care? “Let’s spare the polite conversation, shall we?” he said instead. “No, the dowager duchess is not expecting me. No, I will not leave until I see her. I don’t care if my cousins join us or not. They’re free to slink off and hide out at their club if they so choose. I’ll hunt them down when I wish to see them.”

  Badger merely nodded and led Ian into the parlor to wait. “I’ll have refreshments sent at once, Your Grace.”

  “No need, Badger.” He liked that name. Liked the cut of the man as well. No doubt he came with the townhouse, for neither his mother nor his cousins would ever have engaged his services. He didn’t appear to be a toady. “I won’t be staying long.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  “And Badger, let my mother know that if she’s not down here in ten minutes, I’ll come up there and drag her downstairs.”

  The man didn’t blink, didn’t change the stony expression on his face. “Very good, Your Grace,” he repeated, but Ian noted the subtle glint of amusement in his eyes.

  Upon closer inspection, the parlor furniture wasn’t quite as elegant as it had first appeared. Though well made, it had a patina of faded gentility that must have rankled his mother. She was used to the finest of everything, and although he never stinted on her maintenance, it never seemed to be enough for her.

  Nothing was ever good enough for Duchess Celestia. She hadn’t been satisfied with her husband. Certainly had never been satisfied with her sons, until the death of his brother. Then James had become the golden child, the one upon whom she proceeded to bestow her love, posthumously of course.

  In truth, Ian had been too young at the time of his brother’s death to understand about maternal love or the lack of it. Perhaps she had loved James as deeply as she proclaimed, but he doubted it. She wasn’t the sentimental sort. If she bemoaned his death, it was because she thrived on the attention of others. She wasn’t selective about who offered her sympathy. Anyone would do. A friend. One of her lovers. Even the household servants. It was attention she craved.

  He might have believed her sincere had she been less theatrical about her torment. She never considered that anyone else might have mourned James. No one else mattered to her, or had ever mattered to her.

  To Ian’s surprise, he didn’t have long to wait before his mother made her appearance. She glided in, dressed in a gown of yellow satin, her blonde hair perfectly done up in the latest style. The three fat curls dangling by the side of her ear looked awkward, but the style of her hair didn’t matter. Nor did the pronounced downturn of her mouth bother him. He was used to her sour expression, the tight purse of her lips, as though she’d eaten something unpleasant. Or seen something unpleasant. Namely, him.

  The train of her gown billowed as she made a sweeping turn and sat on the stiff divan. “Why are you here, Edgeware?” She rarely called him Ian, couldn’t bring herself to call him by his given name lest it be mistaken for affection.

  He remained standing, not that she cared. She hadn’t offered him a seat. “For the truth. I know that you, Simon, and Edmund have forgotten what that is.”

  “Did you come here to insult me? If so, then I must ask you to leave.”

  He paid her no mind. “Five months ago,” he started. “Who came up with the brilliant idea to end my life? You? Simon? I doubt it was Edmund. He hasn’t had an original thought since the day he was born.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! We wouldn’t—”

  “Stop. There’s no use denying it. I’ve already had the scum you hired to do your dirty work tracked down and questioned. They’ll be punished.” He paused a moment to watch her squirm, which she did a little, but mostly she glared at him. “I don’t plan to do anything about my loving family—yet. You’ll all keep your allowances and your heads this time.”

  “How generous of you,” she remarked dryly.

  “It is. Damn generous, though you don’t deserve it.” He rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck. “I just want to know why. Why last November?”

  She shrugged, as though to say the time line didn’t matter. She hated him, alw
ays had, and never wanted him around. “If you must know, we didn’t really think it through,” she admitted. “You’re a horrible son, but you know how to grow the family wealth, and of course, you’ve shared it with us, as is your duty.”

  “Right. My duty.” He struggled to suppress a hearty laugh at that remark. Those were love scars crisscrossing his arms and slashed across his stomach, placed there by the knife-wielding ruffians hired by his beloved family. He owed them nothing.

  “It is your duty,” she insisted. “After all, I devoted the best years of my life to raising you.”

  Odd, he thought he’d been raised by strangers. A governess, a tutor, the housekeeper at Swineshead, a fitting name for the place. In truth, it was a beautiful house, but isolated. The relatives rarely visited unless they were in need of funds. They reminded him of pigs at the trough. “Of course. I remember all those cozy nights we sat beside the fire, drinking hot cocoa while you or Father read to me. Wonderful memories. Brings tears to my eyes.”

  Her lips pursed in that sour lemons expression she’d perfected. “You always were a sarcastic bastard.”

  “Not to mention a constant trial and a disappointment.” He shrugged. “Go on. What put the idea into your head to have me killed?”

  She paused a moment, her manner as unaffected as though she were about to comment on the unpredictable London weather. “It didn’t start out that way. We never meant to have you seriously hurt. We heard you intended to marry.”

  He said nothing for a moment, stunned. “Me? Take a wife? Bring a sweet, young thing into this family? That will never happen.”

  “Why not? You’re a wealthy duke. Any girl would be flattered by your proposal, no matter how loathsome you are. We only meant to prevent the marriage from taking place. We like things as they are. Didn’t want the greedy bitch urging you to cut us off.”

  “Warms my cockles,” he said, a familiar numbness sweeping through his body. Since childhood, he’d endured his family by creating a hard shell around his heart. He was like a turtle, ducking into that hard shell whenever danger approached. He’d managed to survive the brutal kicks and punches because he was protected by that thick outer covering.

  Sometimes he was kicked so hard the shell cracked a little. However, it would quickly repair itself. His shell would take only a day or so to recover from this kick. “So what you’re saying is that you preferred to have me dead rather than possibly losing your allowance. I’m moved, Mother. I feel more tears coming on.”

  “We never meant to end your life, just interfere with your wedding plans.” She tipped her nose into the air and made a little sniffing sound. “What did you expect to hear? That I love you? That I’m glad you’re my son? Well, I’m not glad. You’re a murderer and I rue the day I gave birth to you.”

  Which is how most of their encounters ended. “Good day, Mother. I hope I won’t see you around.” Which was his way of telling her to leave town immediately, before he changed his mind and had them all clapped in irons.

  “London is surprisingly dull this year,” she said, her nose still tilted upward into the air. “I think I shall return to Bath with your cousins.”

  “A wise decision.” He started for the door, and then halted. “By the way, if you or my cousins ever make mention of Mary or Felicity again, I will cut off your funds.” In addition to cutting off my cousins’ balls. He hadn’t bothered to issue that threat because if given the choice of which to lose, their manhood or their money, his cousins would have sacrificed their manhood. “You will mention it to Simon and Edmund, won’t you?”

  She rose with a start. “You wouldn’t dare cut us off! Who cares about your father’s by-blow or her wretched offspring? The infant is an affront to the sanctity of my marriage. Your beloved father—”

  “Right, my sainted father.” The man who hadn’t spoken to him since the day James died. The man who’d cheated on his mother, just as she had cheated on her father throughout their perfect marriage. He pinned her with a warning glare. “The rumors stop. Starting now.”

  ***

  Dillie had arranged to pick up Daisy on her way to their monthly sisters meeting, which was to be held at Rose’s townhouse. The monthly meeting had lately become a weekly meeting, and would have become a daily meeting if Dillie had her way. She was in desperate need of advice from her all-knowing married sisters.

  Despite Ian’s assurances that the ton’s most eligible young men would be tripping over themselves to court her—well, he’d been right about that—none of them were in the least interesting to her. Was she the problem? Or were they? She needed to be told whether her standards were unrealistically high or her suitors as unimpressive as she’d thought them.

  “Unremarkable” was the term Lady Withnall had used. It was an apt description of the gentlemen calling on her. However, Dillie gave a small shiver, for she hoped never to end up as withered and mean-spirited as that old woman.

  “Play us a song before you leave,” her young cousin Charles said, tugging on her arm. She’d brought him and a few other cousins along for the ride to Daisy’s. They would remain in the care of Ivy’s nanny while she and Daisy visited Rose.

  Her other young cousins, Lizbeth and Harry, chimed in with their pleas. “The shoemaker song,” Lizbeth said, referring to a silly tune Dillie had made up on a lark last year. The children adored the easy refrain. Clip, clop. Clip, clop, went the shoemaker’s wooden shoes.

  Dillie quickly gave in, for she couldn’t refuse them anything when they stared at her with their big, innocent eyes. She knew there was plenty of time to indulge the children, for Daisy was still in her morning gown and had run upstairs to ready herself only moments ago.

  She soon found herself in Daisy’s music room, walking over to the piano. Charles, Harry, and Lizbeth began to squeal in anticipation the moment she sat down and tickled the keys. Lizbeth jumped up and down in front of her. Dillie laughed. Ah, she loved her adoring public, even if that public comprised three youngsters who were family and therefore required to feign raptures over her talent. “There was an old shoemaker,” Lizbeth began to sing.

  Harry, the youngest, joined in.

  Dillie counted only two voices. “Charles, won’t you sing along?” Charles, all of eight years old, had suddenly turned quite serious.

  In truth, it was in his nature to be quiet and reserved. One rarely got a squeal out of this young man.

  Lizbeth, on the other hand, was rarely quiet. She was now about twelve, approaching that awkward age between child and young woman, and as to be expected, responded to everything with joyful excitement or abject tears of sorrow. Dillie hoped she would grow out of it in time.

  Harry was the youngest and a very grownup five. Unfortunately, he’d been forced to deal with serious matters quite early on, for his father had died in Napoleon’s war. Gabriel and Daisy had helped him get through the loss. Harry chose that moment to cast her a beaming smile. Dillie felt a happy twinge in her heart.

  “May I sing?” Charles asked, as though he required permission to let loose with his vocal talents.

  “Of course you may. The song is meant to be sung by a trio.”

  “But Aunt Sophie,” he said, referring to Dillie’s mother, “told us not to be a bother.”

  Dillie returned his earnest gaze with one of her own. “You never are to me. I love having you with me.”

  “Are you certain?” Speaking to Charles was like being put on the witness stand and hounded with questions. He’d make a fine barrister someday. “You were told to bring us here,” he said in his precise way, “because we’ve lost our nannies again. We’re to stay with Ivy and her nanny for today.”

  “So you see, it worked out perfectly. I wanted to bring you along. I didn’t need to be asked.”

  Lizbeth’s smile faltered and her eyes began to water. “I thought we’d been good this year. I don’t know why the nannies hate us.”

  Dillie reached over and hurriedly gave her a hug. “It isn’t your fault. You’ve al
l been wonderful and I’m so glad you’re here. In truth, you three are my salvation. I’d be bored to tears without you.”

  “We love you too,” Harry assured her, throwing his little arms about her waist and giving her a big hug emphasized by an effusive grunt. His hands were sticky, but what did it matter when she had his love?

  Dillie hugged him back. “I have a game I know you’ll enjoy.”

  The children squealed, their sadness quickly forgotten. “What is it?” Charles asked.

  “It’s a musical game.”

  Their ears perked.

  “I’ll play the shoemaker’s song while you three walk around the piano. When I stop playing, you have to stop in place and stand as still as statues. Anyone who moves is out of the game. Then I’ll start playing again and the remaining players can start walking around the piano again.”

  “And when you stop, we have to stop and pose as statues,” Lizbeth said, her eyes brimming with excitement.

  Ah, children are so easily satisfied. Too bad men are not so easily handled.

  She began to play the shoemaker song. It was a lively, skipping sort of tune. Lizbeth walked like a lady, nose in the air as she glided in front of the boys. Harry and Charles, being boys, were not required to take walking lessons. They hopped, jumped, skipped, and clop, clop, clopped around the piano, taking delight in the thuds they made upon the wood floor each time they landed. Harry, being quite little, did an admirable job of making noise. His little feet came down with the heft of a fat old man.

  Dillie suddenly stopped playing. All three immediately stopped in their tracks, but as for posing as still as statues? It didn’t happen. They were fidgeting and giggling, but she wasn’t going to call them out. “Oh, you’re all too clever for me!”

  She began to play again. Lizbeth resumed walking like a lady, her nose back in the air. The boys resumed hopping and clopping around the piano.