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

by Meara Platt

  She paused a moment, hoping he might return the compliment. “It’s quite fortunate matters worked out the way they did,” she continued, swallowing her disappointment when he kept silent, “except for those attacks on your life, of course. Those were terrible. I’m glad you weren’t hurt this time. I’ll stop rambling now.”

  He surprised her by lifting her into his arms. “Thank you for saving my life. Second time. It hasn’t escaped my notice that I seem to need you by my side.”

  She melted once more at the tender, lopsided smile on his face. Perhaps there was hope for their married life. She returned it with a hopeful smile of her own. “As much as you need air to breathe and water to drink?”

  He shook his head and laughed. “More so.” Then his laughter faded. “It’s time I stripped you out of those wet clothes and got you into bed.”

  She liked the direction this conversation was taking. He still had her in his arms and she had no intention of protesting. “Will you be joining me?”

  He settled her in the center of the bed, sat beside her, and then ever so slowly began to roll down her stockings. Oh, heavens! The sensual touch of his fingers along her thighs was shockingly delicious. A sigh escaped her lips. Her skin grew hot and her thoughts wanton. She loved the feel of his hands upon her body.

  He grinned as he rose from the bed and hung her stockings by the fire. Then he walked to the door and latched it. That’s a promising sign. He returned to her side and deftly slipped the gown off her body. She could still feel the heat of his hands on her skin after he’d undressed her.

  But instead of removing his clothes, he reached for the shirt she’d been using as a nightshirt and put it on her. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Getting you settled. Get under the covers and I’ll tell you a story. Go on, Dillie. I can’t concentrate while your luscious body’s in plain view.”

  She did so reluctantly, worried that he hadn’t been completely honest with her. Oh, she never doubted that he meant to obtain the special license and return to her with a minister in tow, but she also suspected that he was going to do something reckless and dangerous beforehand. Perhaps confront the enemies who had ordered the attack on him. Perhaps kill his enemies.

  He knew who wanted him dead. She simply had to get the truth out of him before he set his rage free and destroyed his future. “Give me your hand, Ian. I want to hold it.”

  “I’m not a little boy. I don’t need you to worry about me.”

  “I know you don’t.” She cast him a smile, hoping her strain did not show through. She didn’t give him the chance to draw away and simply reached for his hand. She was trying to encourage him, not browbeat him into confiding in her.

  He was used to working things out on his own, used to keeping all the hurt and disappointment bottled up inside. This second attack had affected him quite badly. Would his anger finally erupt? She didn’t know how much he would reveal to her, but she would listen to whatever he had to say, hoping that in time he would learn to trust her with all his confidences. “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “You know the beginning already. My brother drowned. My family never forgave me. Ever since that fateful day, I’ve been made to suffer for surviving that accident. I haven’t forgiven myself either. I doubt I ever will.”

  “Oh, Ian—”

  He gave her hand a little squeeze. “No, Dillie. It’s all right. I’ve managed.”

  “Quite well, I think. You’ve built a thriving dukedom, earned the respect of the royal family and the Duke of Wellington for your bravery during the war years. Even Gabriel and Graelem admire you. Gabriel claims that you saved him numerous times from Napoleon’s grasp.”

  “I wasn’t brave. I never cared whether I lived or died. I’m amazed that I did survive Napoleon’s war. In truth, I never thought I would. But I did, and I was angry that I had. James was dead, and here I lived, no matter how many battles I’d fought, no matter how many enemies I’d faced, no matter how many enemy cannons were aimed directly at my chest.”

  Because James was watching over you.

  She couldn’t reveal her thought to Ian. He wouldn’t believe it. Since he blamed himself for his brother’s death, he’d never understand that his brother would not feel the same way. James was surely an angel in heaven, and angels were all about compassion and forgiveness, or so she’d always been taught.

  “There I was, still alive and enjoying all that society had to offer. Meaningless parties, meaningless trysts. Then suddenly one night I kissed the wrong girl.” He paused a moment to cast her the softest smile. “She was snooping in her neighbor’s garden around midnight, poking about where she should not have been.”

  Dillie blushed. “I never forgot that kiss.” He was still smiling at her, making her heart melt. Good thing she was seated in bed, for she doubted her legs would have held her up had she been standing. Her entire body had turned to pudding.

  “Nor did I. I never forgot the kiss, or the girl I mistakenly kissed. You, Dillie. I knew you’d be a danger to my heart the moment our lips touched. Yours were so soft, they just drew me in. I would have gone on kissing you if you hadn’t stepped back and slapped me.”

  “You’d startled me, that’s all. I didn’t really want you to stop. I liked it rather a lot. I still like your kisses.”

  “The night I was attacked on Chipping Way,” he continued, absently running his hand along his stomach and the scar that stretched across it, “I think now that I must have been running toward you. I wasn’t aware of it at the time. As it turns out, it was the smartest thing I could have done for many reasons.”

  She nodded. “Uncle George was there to save you.”

  “That, too. But most important was catching a last glimpse of you... the girl I’d mistakenly kissed. You took my hand that night and never let go.” He swallowed hard. “For the first time in my life, I felt that someone cared. It felt good. Damn good. That night, I knew my time on earth had not been wasted because I’d met you.”

  He shook his head and leaned back. “I know you’re afraid that I’m about to run off and do something foolish. I won’t deny that I want to, but I’ll let my man of affairs take care of my enemies. It’s a simple matter, really. I need only cut off their funds. Toss them out of their homes... my homes.”

  She shook her head. “You support these enemies of yours? I don’t understand. Who are they?”

  “I thought you would have guessed by now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “My family was behind this latest attempt. I imagine it was for the same reason that prompted their first attack.”

  “They ordered the Chipping Way attack?” She frowned, trying to make sense of what he’d just told her. “Why?”

  “Come on, Dillie. Why the confusion? Think mean, petty reasons. My mother would rather see me dead than happily married. My eldest cousin always thought he would inherit, and now he’s terrified that I’ll sire an heir to displace him.”

  Her heart twisted in a painful knot. How had he survived his childhood? She thought of the nights he must have spent alone, a small child left to fend for himself, lying heartbroken and alone in the dark. Despite the lack of a mother’s love, despite the lack of any love at all, he’d turned into an admirable man. “I’m so sorry, Ian.”

  “So am I,” he said in a quiet manner that revealed the extent of his torment. “I’d love to wring their bloody necks, but I won’t. I’ll do something far more painful to them. I’ll cut off their funds and remove them from England. Perhaps ship them off to Jamaica or India. Since I support them, own their beautiful homes, and have been maintaining them all these years, it will be easy for me to do. My terms will be generous. I’ll continue to support them, because as bad as they are, they’re all I have—but I won’t give them enough to pay for more assassins—so long as they remain away from England.”

  He sighed, and his voice broke just a little as he said, “I was a fool to hold out hope, to believe they might one day forgive me.”

  She wra
pped her fingers in his, but glanced away. Her eyes were watering and she didn’t wish Ian to see her crying, for he would mistake her tears for pity. Ian was too proud to ever accept anyone’s pity or help. “They’re the fools. Your entire family.”

  “Perhaps, but they’re still my family. I can understand my cousins’ greed. But my mother?” He leaned back and let out a bitter laugh. “She knew this second attack was planned. Didn’t consider warning me. Now, that’s a mother for you.”

  Dillie was speechless. She couldn’t imagine a single Farthingale ever behaving so abominably. Farthingales might smother with love, but never with apathy or hatred.

  “And then there’s you,” he said softly. “My guardian angel. Your eyes sparkle whenever you look at me. They always have. Even that first night in Lady Eloise’s garden. I’m glad you were the wrong girl and glad I put that sparkle in your eyes.”

  He tipped a finger under her chin and turned her to face him. “I meant what I said the night I lay dying. I’m glad it was you by my side.” I’ve never wanted anyone else beside me. Only you. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.

  One day he’d find the courage to tell her.

  ***

  Ian sent a messenger off to Swineshead with a warning note to his staff to keep alert for strangers prowling about, and then made straight for London. At times, he rode in sunshine that warmed the air, but mostly he rode in a light mist, the stubborn remnant of the powerful storm now moving upward into Scotland.

  The roads improved as he made his way south, but his rage seemed to churn and grow with each stride closer. He stopped at his townhouse before visiting his solicitors, for he needed a hot bath to wash away the layers of dust and mud caked on his clothes.

  He needed a change of clothes as well, and Ian hoped that once he was properly groomed and dressed he’d feel nobler than he did right now. All he felt now was a mounting, unstoppable fury aimed at the people he laughingly referred to as his family. It was all he could do to contain the urge to load his pistols and hunt down the sorry lot of them. He knew that in his present state he was capable of taking cold, dead aim and shooting them.

  His valet hurried toward him as he made for the stairs. The poor man’s eyes rounded as he gaped at Ian’s sorry state. “Your Grace! Has something dreadful happened?”

  “Not yet, but it’s about to.”

  Ian took the stairs two at a time. Ashcroft did his best to follow and was noticeably short of breath by the time he reached Ian’s bedchamber. “I’ll order a bath brought up for you,” Ashcroft said, inspecting him as he shrugged out of his jacket and began to remove his shirt. “And you appear to need refreshments. I’ll order those brought up as well.” Then he shook his head and sighed. “Your clothes, Your Grace. I had better burn them.”

  “I do believe you’re right.” As his valet continued to fuss about him, Ian took a moment to glance around his immaculately maintained quarters. The big bed dominating his chamber caught his attention. Dillie would soon be sharing that bed, sharing his life, assuming he didn’t go off and do something immensely idiotic, such as get himself killed.

  While his bath was wheeled in and servants began to carry in buckets of water to fill it, he strode to his desk, withdrew a sheaf of paper and quill pen from one of the drawers, and hastily penned a note to his solicitors, Dumbley and Sons. It was early afternoon. He had time to collect his thoughts before making decisions that would impact the rest of his life. “Have this note delivered to the senior Mr. Dumbley. I’ll stop by to see him within the hour.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.” However, he hesitated a moment before turning away.

  “Ashcroft, what’s troubling you?” His valet rarely appeared this perplexed.

  “I don’t wish to presume,” he began, clasping his hands in front of him and staring at his toes. “But if this has something to do with the dowager duchess Celestia, then you ought to know... she has returned to London.”

  Every aching bone in Ian’s body stiffened. “Returned?”

  “Indeed, Your Grace. Only yesterday. Your cousins as well.”

  “Damn it,” he said softly. He’d banished them to Bath earlier in the season, but here they were back again, no doubt confident their second plot would succeed. Too confident. He was about to disappoint them. “Where have they set up residence?”

  “Same townhouse they’d let for the season. Or rather, that you’d let for them. I must say, we were all surprised, for they’d only recently left, and at the time of their departure you did not appear inclined to allow them back.”

  “That’s putting it politely.” Ian didn’t know whether to roar with laughter at their presumption or pound his fists on his desk in anger and frustration. Either response would have frightened his valet. He kept his manner even and controlled, as he had for all of his life, no matter the insults, no matter the hurt and disappointment. “No, I was not inclined to let them back at all. Nor am I now. However, their presence in town will make my task all the easier. Thank you for letting me know, Ashcroft. You’ve just saved me a lot of time and trouble.”

  He nodded. “I’m adept with weapons, Your Grace. Of course, you know that. Just thought I’d mention it again, for I take my responsibilities to you seriously.”

  “Thank you, but laying out my clothes and making certain my cravat is properly tied before I step out onto the street is all I require of you just now.” He noticed the look of disappointment on his valet’s face and realized he’d just taken the wind out of the poor man’s sails. No doubt insulted his loyalty, too. “Keep your weapons at the ready. The day isn’t over yet, and who knows what might happen?” Ian was spoiling for a fight himself, and knew he’d have it before the sun set over the muddy Thames. “Your offer is much appreciated.”

  Ashcroft puffed out his chest. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Ian washed and dressed, then made his way to the Inns of Court where Dumbley and Sons maintained offices. He quickly finished his business with the senior Mr. Dumbley, arranged to meet him later at his mother’s townhouse, and then made his way to a less fashionable side of town to engage Homer Barrow, the Bow Street runner of excellent reputation he’d used on occasion before. He liked Homer. The man was sharp-witted and reliable.

  The church bells of St. Paul’s were ringing in the distance by the time Ian, his trusted man of affairs Henry Matchett, his elderly but feisty solicitor Mr. Dumbley, and Homer Barrow and his Bow Street runners reached his mother’s townhouse. Mr. Barrow was an amiable-looking, portly fellow with a bulbous nose, but looks were deceptive. He and his companions, Mick and Bert, were quick to action and doggedly attentive to their purpose. They earned curious looks from the passersby, who were not used to such gatherings along the fashionable square.

  “Just give us the word, Yer Grace,” Mr. Barrow said with a nod, waiting for permission to march in and haul Ian’s cousins out of London and onto the next packet ship sailing somewhere far, far from England.

  The task of arranging that passage had been assigned to Mr. Dumbley, who already had the tickets in hand. In truth, Ian was surprised by the enthusiasm with which his solicitor had agreed to take on the task. “About time you got rid of those wretches,” he’d muttered.

  Long past time, Ian knew. “I’ll go in first. Wait for my summons.”

  He knew that his decision to bring along his man of affairs and his solicitors when confronting his family was the right one. He would leave those cooler heads to finalize the details of their banishment.

  He sighed.

  Dillie had cause to be concerned about him. He wasn’t used to thinking of anyone other than himself, and were it not for her and Felicity, he’d be ruthlessly pummeling his cousins, pounding his fists into them until they were bleeding and could no longer breathe. If he were the sort to accost women, he’d do the same to his mother. But that was one thing he’d never do, for he could never bring himself to strike a woman, no matter how evil she was.

  Ian strode into the elegant townhouse una
nnounced and found his mother, as expected, sipping tea with his useless cousins. “Good afternoon, Celestia. Simon. Edmund. How convenient to find you all together. But you’ve all turned pale. What, have you just seen a ghost?”

  The teacup slipped from Celestia’s hand and clattered to the floor. “It isn’t possible.”

  Simon bent to reach into his boot. Ian withdrew his pistol and aimed it at Simon’s heart, his grip calm and steady though he was still a muddle of fury and heartache. His own family! And now it had come to this. “I’d reconsider if I were you.”

  Simon held out his hands as he straightened back up, obviously sensing Ian’s rage and afraid to make a wrong move. “Bastard.”

  “Alas, Simon, it isn’t the case. Otherwise, you would have been duke. But you’re not, and never will be.” He called to Mr. Barrow, and didn’t have long to wait before he scuttled in with his runners right behind him. “Escort my cousins to their rooms and help them pack. Be quick about it. Their ship sails at the evening tide.”

  “A ship?” Celestia rose to her proud height, her eyes widening in obvious surprise as Matchett and Dumbley entered the salon. She stiffened her spine. “I’m not leaving England. You can’t make me go.”

  Ian arched an eyebrow. “No, the journey is only for my cousins.” He turned to them as they were about to be hauled upstairs, his expression as cold as his heart now felt. “There’s hope for you in a new land, away from Celestia’s poison. If you think to step foot on English soil again, just know that the Prince Regent has issued warrants for your arrest. He’s holding off enforcement of those warrants until tomorrow. You’ll both be hanged if you’re ever caught in England again. Keep that thought in mind.”