Instead of replying, Smithfield just gave him a knowing look, a look that said everything in both of their minds—aristocrats didn’t usually take in their bastard offspring, they were far more likely to fling them out on the streets with a denial of their paternity, and what was he doing being responsible anyway, it wasn’t as though he’d ever shown an iota of responsibility in his life, except for being responsible to his own comfort and ease of living. That it happened to coincide with his staff’s ease of living was merely coincidental.
Or perhaps, Marcus reflected, that was just going through his own mind.
“I didn’t think you were planning on being a—a cousin anytime soon,” Smithfield remarked, “at least not according to what you said last night.” The way he spoke made it clear he knew the truth. And that Society wouldn’t think twice about him casting her off, given the reality of the situation.
Why didn’t that make him feel better?
Marcus shrugged. “It seemed impolite to toss her out, what with her mother having died and all.” He winced inwardly at how callous he sounded.
Funny, he couldn’t even remember Fiona’s face, though he’d had her in his keeping for two months, at least. He did recall her remarkable ability with her mouth. And she’d been most reasonable when they discussed the babe. She hadn’t even argued with the sum his money manager proffered as reasonable for the child’s upkeep.
He would not share any of his memories of her mother with Rose, however.
“What are you going to do with her?” Smithfield sounded only mildly curious, as though Rose were an extra chair to put away or an out-of-style waistcoat. Plus he was questioning a duke. Apparently the “not questioning dukes” precept was less widely known than Marcus presumed. He’d have to speak to whoever compiled the ducal precepts.
“I’ve hired a governess.” A beautiful woman. Not to mention, a woman who seemed as though she wished to challenge him. But someone who was also clearly competent to be in charge of a small child, judging by how Rose had responded to her, and how the child’s face had grown more at ease seeing her. Was hiring a governess the first unselfish thing he’d ever done, or did it just feel like that?
Plus he’d felt a tingle of something in her presence, an awareness of what it was like to be in conversation with someone who wasn’t intimidated by him. Might not even like him that much, actually.
What would it take for her to like him?
More than two minutes, he’d guess.
So perhaps he wasn’t entirely unselfish.
“So you plan on keeping her?” Smithfield sounded startled. Hearing it so definitively made Marcus chafe at the permanence, and he had to squelch the urge to deny keeping her at all.
But the look on her face. He couldn’t do that to her just yet, not until she’d gotten a bit more settled. Then he could decide.
“Is there anything I can do to assist?” Smithfield now sounded genuinely concerned. He’d even lowered himself back down so he was seated on four respectable chair legs rather than a shocking two. “My sisters are both married, they live in town, and both have offspring, I believe. If you need any advice or anything, I can ask them.”
Perhaps he had made a good choice in a new best friend.
Although it wouldn’t do to get all confiding in the man, given how they’d only recently met. But still. It touched him.
“Thank you, I will bear that in mind. For now, I just want her to get accustomed to being here. Her mother has just passed, I understand, and everything she’s known is gone.” She was like him, only his parents hadn’t actually been dead. They had just paid so little attention to him that he felt as though he didn’t have parents.
“Of course.” There was a moment of silence, and then Smithfield spoke again. “You didn’t happen to see my snuffbox, did you? That is why I originally stopped by, not just to question you about your plans in regard to your newly arrived urchin.”
“Of course. Come with me to the ballroom.”
Marcus flung the door open so he and Smithfield could enter. Unfortunately for Smithfield’s property, the room was still in the postparty deshabille they had left it in. The servants hadn’t yet been in to clean, what with Rose’s arrival and his subsequent need to interview the governess.
It was, once he really looked at it, almost appalling. There were brandy bottles, half-eaten plates, and other indications of their time together. He focused his eyes on the larger table, the one with cat prints studding its white tablecloth.
“I’m certain my staff will locate it once they’ve had a chance to straighten up. Meanwhile,” he said, almost before thinking, “since you mentioned it, would you and your sisters and their husbands like to come for dinner one night this week? I would be glad to have a mother’s opinion on my charge and her governess. It would obviously be a small party, given the circumstances.”
“That would be nice, thank you.” Smithfield’s expression turned rueful. “I apologize in advance if my sisters are dumbstruck by your presence—they’ve never been within spitting distance of a duke, much less dined with one.”
He hoped it wouldn’t come to spitting. “Wednesday, then? Eight o’clock? Hopefully we’ll have located your snuffbox by then.”
“Yes, thank you.” Smithfield unfolded his rangy body from the chair and stood, holding his hand out to shake Marcus’s hand. “I admire what you are doing with regard to the child. It isn’t every man in your position who’d take on that responsibility.” He sounded genuinely impressed.
“Mmph, yes,” Marcus agreed, feeling uncomfortable. When was the last time he’d been praised for something other than his ability to hold his liquor or play a hand of cards?
Never sprung to mind.
Did he really wish to change that?
It is not possible for a duke not to know all that is required of a duke; he is, by definition, the epitome of his title. How he is, is what a duke should be. But if a duke should happen upon a situation in which he feels as though he does not know all, he must never let on that he is less than completely competent. By assuming the mantle of knowledge, he becomes the knowledge. He is the knowledge.
—THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR
Chapter 5
“What has happened?” Lily hurried across the thick carpet to kneel and clasp Rose in her arms. The girl was stiff against her body, and Lily fought against holding her tighter—that might only scare her. She could feel the warm tears falling onto the shabby lace that trimmed her gown.
“He left,” Rose wailed, finally unbending her body and clutching Lily in a death grip.
“Who?” Lily asked, gently trying to pry Rose’s fingers loose. A nonbreathing governess would not be helpful toward ensuring the agency’s future. To say nothing of her own, she thought.
“Mmphhmph Smthph,” the girl replied, sobbing more furiously into Lily’s shoulder.
Lily slowly drew away and looked at Rose, who stared back with an anguished look in her eyes. “Who, dear? I couldn’t quite hear that. I want to help.”
“Mr. Snuffles,” Rose said, as though Lily knew who that was.
“Who is that?”
Rose’s expression changed from anguish to exasperation. “The kitty! He was here, and I was petting him, and then he left. Bad kitty. Make him come back.”
A cat. Thank goodness it was only a cat. “What does Mr. Snuffles look like?”
“He looks like a cat.” Rose’s tone made it clear she believed her new governess was an idiot for not knowing what a cat looked like. And, to be fair, if Lily didn’t actually know, she would be one.
Lily pulled her handkerchief out and dabbed Rose’s face. “What color is his fur?”
“All black, with white spots.” So therefore not all black, but Lily was not going to point that out to the sad child. There was enough time later for pedantry of a feline nature.
“Should we go ask the duke?”
Rose’s face brightened. “Yes, it must be his cat. He has to be a nice
man if he has a nice cat.”
Now was also not the time to point out that judging people by their animal ownership was not an acceptable way of gauging personality.
“Shall we go together?”
At that, Rose withdrew, crossing her arms on her chest and shaking her head. “You go. I want to stay here in case Mr. Snuffles comes back.”
Lily stood, feeling her knees complain about her position on the rug. “Are you certain? You will be all right staying here by yourself?”
There were so many more questions she wanted to ask—how had she arrived, did she know anything about her mother, where had she lived before, why was she just meeting her father—but Lily knew that focusing on the cat’s appearance or nonappearance was a good distraction from Rose’s new reality, and she didn’t want to jeopardize that.
The girl’s expression turned scornful. “Of course, I’m alone all the time.”
That was something worth investigating later on; it would certainly explain the look she’d had on her face earlier, if Rose had been neglected in the past.
But meanwhile she had Mr. Snuffles to locate. And a duke who might know where the missing kitty was.
If she was intimidated by the amount of rooms he had, just imagine how foolish she would feel to inquire about a missing cat.
But if it would make this little girl happier, she would do it, even if it meant speaking to the Dangerous Duke.
She kept that thought in mind as she descended the still enormous, still marble, always intimidating staircase.
The duke was not his house. Although the thought that he was even more intimidating—not to mention impressive—than his living quarters did nothing to assuage her tension. That he was the most male, most handsome, and definitely the most dukely man she’d ever met did not help her, either.
At this rate she’d be a heap of sobbing nerves by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. What happened to her precise, methodical self?
Oh, of course. She’d tossed it away in a moment of impulse. Of risk.
“Calm yourself, Lil,” she whispered, using her mother’s nickname for her. “He is just a man”—a handsome, wealthy, important man—“who might know where a cat has gotten to. That is all.” He would also discharge her on the spot if he so much as suspected about her unfortunate past. She needed to remain precise, prim, and methodical.
She really wished there was a word that started with p that meant methodical. It would make things so much more . . . methodical.
She took a deep breath, then reentered the putrid pink room, where she found him, as she’d expected. Only he wasn’t lounging about elegantly on a settee drinking brandy out of a snifter; nor was he nibbling on some young woman’s neck as he seduced her with lovely words spoken in that deep, resonant voice; nor did he seem to be in possession of any kind of cat at all.
Instead, he appeared to be buttoning a pinafore on a doll, a doll with brown hair and little black shoes, a doll that—unless she was entirely mistaken about the duke—certainly did not belong to him.
He looked startled when she walked in, then his expression quickly switched to chagrin, and then anger.
“What are you doing, just walking in like that? I could have been—I could have been . . .”
He paused, and Lily supplied, unable to help herself, “Cavorting?”
He glared at her, and then at the doll, and then back at her. “Cavorting, Miss Lily, yes.” His tone was dry.
“Do you plan on cavorting while a child is in residence, Your Grace?” she asked as mildly as possible. She had no idea what cavorting meant in his world, but she was guessing it was not good for a child to be exposed to. Perhaps he had rooms for cavorting, and she would have to warn Rose—and herself—away from them.
She did not want to see him cavort. Did she?
A quick assessment of her thoughts told her, unfortunately, that she did. And she would be an unfortunate woman if she cavorted with him.
No cavorting, Lily warned herself.
“My behavior is not up for discussion, Miss Lily,” he said, putting the doll down—gently, Lily noted—on the execrable escritoire. “Did you often walk in unannounced with your past employers?”
“My past . . . ?” Oh, of course, the vicar with aspirations. “Your Grace, I do apologize. I will be certain to announce myself in future so as not to disturb you.” She sounded nearly as priggish as his butler did. He definitely would not wish to cavort with anyone as stuffy as she. Good work, Lil, she cheered herself. “I am here because Miss Rose is—that is, was—crying, and she wished I would ask you where your cat might be.”
“Which one?”
Ah, so the Dangerous Duke appeared to have a clowder of cats. How very . . . unexpected.
Maybe each of his cats had their own room? What if he had other bizarre habits? First cats, then jungle animals. Or what if he decided to try to become a cat himself, and only drink milk, sleep, and groom himself? The first two might not be so bad, but images of the latter were hardly peaceful.
“She said his name was Mr. Snuffles.”
One eyebrow lifted. “None of the cats have names, as far as I know.”
Wonderful. Not only did he have a multitude of cats, he hadn’t even bothered to name them. It was a good thing his daughter already had a name, or he might just be calling her “Girl” for the rest of her life.
“This cat is all black with white spots.”
“So not all black, then.” His lips curled into a smirk, and Lily had to tamp down the desire to smile back at him. Smiling back might lead to—well, it could lead to cavorting and luring and all sorts of things a proper governess should not be thinking about, much less doing.
Right. Back to the cat. “Do you know where it might be, then?”
“No. But I can ask Thompson.”
The thought of the stuffy butler having to search for a missing cat for the child who’d just arrived because the even more newly arrived governess demanded it— “No, I will just take a look for it,” she said hastily.
She could not afford to make enemies on her first day here. Later on, when she was more established, then she could make enemies. She tried to smile, which was difficult since she was also trying to remain distant, as a governess would. She probably looked like she had a queasy stomach. Of course, she could always blame it on the Pink Room’s execrableness. Or her hunger. When would she get a chance to eat, anyway? “The cat will probably wander back. It’s likely being fussed over by Rose right now.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if in thought. “Miss Lily, may I confide in you?”
Oh, dear. Was he about to tell her of some horrific habit he had, or perhaps admit his long-held desire to live as the Duke of Snuffles, perhaps?
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“I have never been in proximity to a child before.”
That was not a surprise. “Oh?”
“And I will therefore ask that you help me to deal properly with her.”
That he admitted to not knowing everything, when she presumed that dukes were in the habit of knowing everything, or at least being told that they did, made her heart soften.
And the expression in his dark eyes when he spoke of Rose, well, that made her soften, too.
“I will promise you employment for at least three months,” he continued in a distant tone of voice, “or until Rose is sent . . . somewhere. Whichever is the longer of the two.”
Ah. So he was asking her for help temporarily. Just long enough for her to become established, and then she would return to the agency with a duke’s seal of approval. It would be ideal, both for her and the agency.
It would, she told herself again.
“Here.” Marcus picked the doll up and thrust it at her. “Take this. To Rose,” he clarified, as though she might possibly think it was a gift for her.
She took it from him, their fingers touching as they made the exchange. The contact sent images spiraling through his brain—he wanted t
o slide his fingers along the back of her hand, up her sleeve to her collarbone. To run his fingers along the smooth skin of her neck the better to clasp her to him and take her mouth in a—
“That’s very kind of you. How did you find a doll on such short notice?” she asked, her hazel eyes warming up to gold.
Thank goodness she could not read minds.
“I asked Thompson if there were any toys lying about.” He shrugged, feeling suddenly abashed. “It was a small thing, and I thought it would make her happy.”
Lily smiled, revealing a dimple in the corner of her cheek. And also, Marcus thought ruefully, revealing his sudden desire to lick at that dimple.
Where were all these urges coming from?
Well, he knew where they were coming from—he squelched the impulse to look down at himself—but the better question was why.
He’d have to wait to be alone to even consider how to answer that question.
“It will make her very happy, Your Grace,” Lily replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go see about finding Mr. Snuffles.”
Mister— Oh, the cat.
“Of course.” He watched as she turned to make her way to the door. “Wait.”
She turned back, holding the doll to her chest. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“I would like to join you in the search, if I may.”
He couldn’t help but notice the wry smile that played about her lips. As though she wanted to laugh but wouldn’t let herself.
“Yes, I know it is not usual for men in my position to go feline-hunting,” he said, answering a question she hadn’t asked, “but if it will make the girl happy . . .”
“Rose,” she said, those lips pursing into lemony primness again.
“Yes, Rose,” he said, saying it deliberately loudly. “If it will make Rose happy, I would like to help.”
“It is your decision, of course.” She said it in a way that cast doubt that he could locate his own nose, much less a cat that had wandered away, most likely to hunt mice in the farthest regions in the cellar.
The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior Page 4
