The Duke's Stolen Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  Wretch.

  Suddenly, his hands were no longer on the shrubbery. They were on her hair—on her. She held her breath. It was far more intimacy than she wanted, but she knew better than to protest. Like a hare caught in a trap, she waited, eager for that moment of freedom when she could bolt away.

  “Stay still. I don’t want to hurt you.” His manner might be rough, but his fingers worked gently to untangle the strands of her hair. “You have a lot of hair,” he mused.

  She grunted noncommittally, unsure what to say to that.

  “There,” he murmured, his voice a husky puff against her forehead. “All done. Now you’re free.”

  She was free, but unlike a newly freed hare, she just stood there, looking up at him in wonder, pinned to the spot as though she were still imprisoned by bramble and thorns. She might as well have been. His eyes pinned her just as effectively.

  For a man who alleged to care for nothing, he was very helpful and considerate of her discomfort. A warm flutter took flight in her stomach. He looked less stern as he stared down at her. His scrutiny was merely . . . intense. Intense in a way that only increased those flutters.

  Finally, he stepped away and she breathed a little easier.

  “Why is it you are always in places a body should not be?” he asked.

  She flushed hotly. It was embarrassing, but true. The first time they met she had been hiding under a table, and now she had taken cover in foliage.

  “I thought you were a highwayman,” she blurted, stepping farther away from the hedge and yet keeping a respectable distance from him.

  “Me?” He looked skeptical. “You thought I was a highwayman?”

  “Indeed. They don’t always travel in groups. I spotted you from a distance and dove into the bushes to hide.”

  He looked all around them as though assessing the likelihood of danger.

  “If you feared bandits, then why abandon the main road to stroll through the more remote countryside?”

  “Everyone knows they always attack the main road. It’s more traveled. That’s where they go. Of course, I would take an alternate route.” That actually made sense. She nodded, pleased with herself for coming up with that.

  He looked less convinced. In fact, he looked rather befuddled.

  She brought her basket in front of her, clasping the handle in both hands. “In any event, thank you for not being a bandit.”

  “Er, you’re welcome.”

  “And thank you for helping me emerge from the hedge,” she added.

  “Of course.”

  She hesitated. His solicitousness was something to ponder. This—combined with him hiding her from the coal peddler—gave her pause. He could not be entirely wretched and lacking mercy. Perhaps she could approach him about lessons on desire? Her stomach flutters started all over again.

  Not right now, though. Not in this moment. She needed more time to think on the matter. As desperate as she was, she didn’t want to do anything rash that she would come to regret.

  With a final nod, she turned in the direction of home to resume her walk . . . only to stop when she noticed he had fallen in beside her, leading his horse by the reins.

  “What are you doing?”

  “As you’ve pointed out, these are dangerous times when bandits could be lurking about. I’m escorting you home.”

  “Oh, no, no. That’s not necessary.”

  “I think you’ve perfectly illustrated that it is necessary . . . and in the future you should reconsider walking about the countryside unescorted.”

  As though she had a choice. She bristled. “I assure you, a stroll without a chaperone with you presents its own hazards.”

  His hard expression did not even crack. “I’m certain I do not know your meaning.”

  “It would not be appropriate.”

  “Given the manner of our first meeting, I did not think appropriateness would be a concern high on your list.”

  “You have no idea what concerns me, Your Grace.”

  He cocked his head. “I have some notion.”

  She winced. After their first encounter, she supposed that was true. Like everyone else in these parts, he knew she was desperately in need of funds.

  “I am certain you can find better things to do.” Things like whisky and women and food.

  “I might prefer to do better things, but honor demands I escort you the rest of the way home.”

  Honor? She laughed. She could not help herself.

  “I said something amusing?”

  “For a man who claims to care for nothing and no one, you seem overly concerned with the notion of honor.”

  He scowled. “You’ve a waspish tongue for someone who was just rescued from bramble and thorns.”

  Rescued? “The only reason I was in there was because you came charging toward me and I did not recognize you. I feared for my safety.” He was unendurable and obtuse. “I don’t know how much clearer I can be. Being seen with you will be damaging to my reputation.”

  Perhaps she was exaggerating a smidge, but she did not want to be alone one moment longer with the man. Her face felt hot and flushed and she didn’t know how much longer she could stand in proximity to him without doing or saying something that would give away the intimate conversation she’d just had—about him, no less!—with Mrs. Ramsey.

  He blinked. “Being seen with me? A day ago you were hiding at my feet from creditors and now you’re too good for me?”

  “My financial status has nothing to do with propriety.”

  “Bloody, bloody . . .” The rest of his words faded away as he turned from her abruptly.

  She watched as he mounted in one fluid motion. The destrier danced in a circle before the duke reined him in. Once he had the beast under control, he looked down, blasting her with a haughty, cold glare. “Enjoy your walk. I’ll trouble you no more.” With a tense nod of farewell, he whirled his mount around and galloped away.

  She stared after him, experiencing mixed emotions but glad that he was departing and glad she had decided not to ask him her scandalous request.

  At least not yet.

  Marian definitely needed more time to consider the matter, and more time to gather her nerve—even if she knew deep down what she had to do.

  Chapter 7

  After choking down another barely edible meal, Nate retired to his study to pen the obligatory letter to his mother.

  A fire crackled in the great hearth across from him. Nearby, his hound slept on the rug before the fire. The beast was wiry and fit from their many walks through the countryside and swims in the pond, but he was snoring like an old man.

  Shaking his head, Nate took a drink from his glass and returned his attention to the matter at hand. The letter was long overdue. His mother had written him again, harping on the fact that he had not replied to her last letter and was he alive still and had he found himself a bride yet because he was not getting any younger.

  The usual.

  He knew it could be worse. His mother could be in England and within proximity to him and he would have to endure her harping in a face-to-face encounter. Small blessing she was somewhere in Spain.

  She had been touring the continent with her husband for well over a year now. His father was long dead. She’d remarried the Earl of Norfolk soon after his father passed. The earl was a few years younger than his mother, a garrulous man with a raucous laugh, given to wild parties and too much drink and flaunting his bastard son all about Society. A perfect match for his mother, who also enjoyed life’s excesses.

  Nate knew there was a bit of irony in that. His mother liked to surround herself with people. She needed people whilst her son desired only solitude.

  A light knock sounded at his door and he bade enter. Pearson stepped inside the room.

  His man of affairs was not much older than Nate. Proper. Stoic. Impeccably attired. He only ever wore bland expressions that gave away nothing going on behind his eyes. He was the height of efficiency and his word
s attested to that. “I’ve sent inquiries for a proper cook. In the meantime, Dobbs is on his way from Derbyshire.”

  Dobbs. The Irish cook had been with his family for decades. He would not like being uprooted from the Warrington seat in Derbyshire. Nate had rarely visited his ancestral estate growing up as he had been at school most of the time, but he did recall Dobbs shouting from the kitchen when one of his underlings displeased him.

  Nate liked a silent house. Calm. A place where emotions did not rule.

  Bringing Dobbs here would add upheaval into his orderly world, but the man knew his way around the kitchen, and it would be worth a palatable meal.

  Pearson continued, “I will keep him in check, Your Grace.”

  Nate nodded once, all brusqueness. “Very good, Pearson. You may go now.”

  Pearson turned away and departed the room.

  Nate returned his attention to his letter. After a moment he wadded it up and tossed it across the room. He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and started over.

  Words never came with ease for him. Even the written word that he could labor over and reflect upon before putting down proved elusive.

  He reminded himself that it didn’t need to be complicated. His mother only wished to be told everything was right and merry in his life. So that’s what he would tell her. He would tell her what she wanted to hear. If he didn’t give her such assurances, she might decide to visit him. God forbid that happened.

  The last thing he wanted was to endure his stepfather. The man could not hide his contempt for Nate. Norfolk might even bring that wastrel son of his along. For whatever reason, he liked his bastard—perhaps because Kingston was his only offspring or, more likely, because Kingston was cut from the same cloth. A rakehell with no responsibilities who spent all of his time carousing . . . moving from one party to the next drinking, gambling, and seducing anything in skirts.

  They were the extent of his family, and he did not want any of them visiting him. His quill scratched over parchment with renewed determination as another knock sounded at his door.

  Pearson stuck his head back into the room. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but there is someone here to see you.”

  Nate frowned. He knew no one in these parts.

  “A woman,” Pearson added.

  Nate glanced to the calendar on his desk. He kept standing appointments with certain females of the demimonde. He saw to their transport here from London and back. It might be a long carriage ride for just an hour of his time, but he compensated them well.

  He never needed more than an hour, two at the most. That was enough. It was a simple transaction. No conversation or flirtation or coddling.

  “I don’t have an appointment tonight.”

  “Ah. That is true. I believe she is from the village.”

  He didn’t know anyone in the village. He shrugged. “Then I don’t know her.” He waved Pearson off. “Send her on her way.”

  Pearson nodded and turned to leave.

  Nate lowered his gaze back to his missive, lifted his quill and froze, the memory of his one foray into the village filling his mind.

  “Wait.” The word flew from his lips. He looked back up. “This woman. What does she look like?”

  Pearson considered the question for a moment. “Young. Fair. A bit shabby in dress, Your Grace. No one would mistake her for one of your lady friends.”

  Indeed not. All of Nate’s lady friends wore the finest silks and brocade and ermine-trimmed cloaks.

  He leaned back in his chair. Pearson’s description was brief, but it matched with the image in his mind of the chit that preoccupied far too much of his thoughts. He’d encountered her twice, but he could not shake the memory of her words. You’re the depraved duke.

  He knew who was calling on him. He recalled her perfectly. And she was here to see him.

  “Show her in.”

  It was madness coming here, but Marian reminded herself that madness aptly described her life. At least, what it had become. Day after day of drudgery, of grinding penury. That was the definition of tragedy, she supposed.

  Somehow, her life had become a Greek play. Who knew what this act would bring? She was at a turning point for certain.

  A stiff-lipped fellow led her into the bowels of the house. The place was dark. Under furnished, too, as far as she could see. Not at all like the grand homes of the aristocracy she’d frequented whilst in the Duke of Autenberry’s employ. The bones of the house might be grand enough, but it was just that—a skeleton with nothing inside its frame.

  Their steps lightly padded over the runner.

  They passed windows with heavy damask drapes covering them. Not that it mattered at this hour. There was no sunlight to be had even if they were pulled open.

  Haverston Hall was a bit of a trek from her house. She’d left home at dusk with their one horse, Bessie. She was an old mare now. Gone were the days when Marian and her sisters and brother would pile on her back and run across the meadow. Even though Bessie could bring them some coin and it was an added burden to keep and feed her, Marian did not have the heart to sell off the creature. Some things were beyond price.

  Besides, Bessie wasn’t entirely frail. There was still life in her yet. She had managed to carry Marian to Haverston Hall in the fading twilight, after all.

  Sconces lined the walls of the corridors but only a few were lit. Just enough to save them from stumbling about in darkness.

  She was led to a pair of slightly ajar double doors. The man pushed a door open and motioned her inside. “Miss . . .”

  She nodded and did as he directed, stepping within the well-appointed room. It was dark like the rest of the house, but not quite as bare. All rich woods and leather. No feminine touch whatsoever.

  A fire crackled in a great hearth, casting the room in flickering orange light. She clutched the neck of her cloak tightly together in front of her even though she felt quite warm. Warmer than she had felt for quite some time. Since Papa had died.

  “Miss . . . you still wish to keep your cloak?”

  She nodded and opened her mouth, but stopped at the deep, familiar voice intoning, “Leave us.”

  The duke’s man departed the room, leaving her alarmingly alone with the man she had come to see.

  It shouldn’t be alarming. She knew that. She’d been alone with him before, out in the countryside, and he had not done anything to make her feel unsafe. On the contrary, he had attempted to escort her home.

  Marian took a steadying breath. She had entered into this in full understanding of what she was about. She knew it was an outrageous scheme, but something needed to happen. Something needed to change. She had to make something happen or someone else would. Any one of the creditors could bring action against her. She could be sent to Newgate. A frisson of dread danced down her spine. And then it would be too late. It would all be out of her control. Mr. Lawrence’s face flashed across her mind, and her dread intensified. Out of her control and not to her liking. Not her choice.

  Warrington was standing. Or rather leaning against his desk. Even leaning against the edge of his desk he was a head taller than Marian.

  “You’ve tracked me down,” he announced.

  “It wasn’t that difficult. Everyone knows where you live.”

  He angled his head as though peering to look over her shoulder. “Any other coal purveyors in pursuit of you?” He waved at the desk. “Have you need to crawl beneath this?”

  She winced. “No. No one knows I’m here. That is why I came under cover of night.”

  “Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Advisable considering you are an unescorted female. I do believe you are concerned with propriety . . . even if you have a penchant for hiding under tables and inside shrubbery and calling on strange men in their homes.”

  Of course, he would mention those instances when she had made a complete fool of herself. She glanced away, more nervous than she had ever felt in her life.

  “Why are you here, Miss .
. .”

  She dragged her gaze back to him. “Langley. Marian Langley.”

  That introduction, she realized, was long overdue.

  With an imperious wave of his hand, he prompted her to continue. “Well, Miss Langley. What do you want from me?”

  Directly to the point. She supposed she should do the same and get to it.

  She squared her shoulders. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Indeed.” His arms came up to cross over his chest.

  She nodded quickly, grasping for her fleeing composure. “I’d like you to teach me . . .” Her voice failed her.

  “Teach you?” he prodded.

  Find your tongue. Say it. Speak the words, outrageous though they be.

  “Yes. I’d like you to teach me to be a good lover.” There. She’d said it. She’d done it. Nothing could be as difficult as that. She winced. Except perhaps touching him and letting him touch her, but that was later. She’d fret over that then.

  It was some moments before he spoke. “What did you say?”

  She swallowed and repeated herself. “I’d like you to show me how to be a good lover.” She clarified further. “I want to know everything there is to know about pleasing a man.”

  His eyes narrowed, but she still felt their dark heat on her in the gloom of the room. “You’ve never been with a man.”

  It was more statement than question.

  She knew she shouldn’t feel offended. A gently bred young lady should be presumed chaste, but a part of her wondered why he was so quick to assume. She was here, after all, for illicit reasons. Did she strike him as a woman no man would want? She was not typically insecure, but around him she felt awkward and uncertain of herself.

  “Yes, that is true. I’ve never been with a man, but I’m not completely ignorant on such matters,” she rushed to say. “I understand what goes on between a man and woman . . . the mechanics of it at any rate. I simply lack the experience. That’s where you come in.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I do not.”