“Ah.” He’d heard the old duke had died, as well as the duke’s heir and his spare. This Wattles must be the third son, he of the scandalous wife. Late wife, that is. She’d recently shuffled off this mortal coil also—as scandalously as she’d lived.
Marrying so soon after his wife’s death would certainly get the gossips chattering, so it made sense the man wished to tie the knot quietly.
Miss Hutting was shaking her head. “I would never have guessed Mr. Wattles was a duke’s son. He always looked like he found his clothes in someone’s attic.”
Odd. Whenever he’d seen the man about Town, the fellow had been dressed normally. Perhaps he’d been trying to disguise himself. Loves Bridge was not far from London. Word of his whereabouts—and his amorous exploits, apparently—would have got back to the gabble grinders if anyone here had recognized him.
Not that he completely faulted the man. His not-so-dearly departed wife had been a very dirty dish, worse even than the Duchesses of Hart—though it had always been said that, unlike the Dukes of Hart, Wattles had loved the woman when he’d married her.
“And why would he come to this little village and consent to teach reluctant music students like my brother Walter?” Miss Hutting frowned. “You know, Miss Franklin, I mean—oh, bother. I’m just going to keep calling her that. Miss Franklin didn’t breathe a word of their relationship to me, and I met with her every Wednesday afternoon.”
That was hardly surprising. It wouldn’t take a genius to discern that Miss Hutting would not be a supportive audience for such a discussion.
“It’s a small village. They probably wished to maintain some privacy.”
Miss Hutting’s brows slanted into a scowl. “I still don’t see how Miss Franklin could be so harebrained. She had her independence, and she threw it away. And for what?”
“A title? Wealth?” Surely Miss Hutting wasn’t that naïve.
She shook her head. “No. Perhaps if she was a silly young girl, but Miss Franklin is almost forty.”
“Perhaps she was lonely.” He understood loneliness all too well. “Perhaps she loves him.”
Love? Ha! Love has no place in the ton, and Benton is a member of the ton.
Miss Hutting gawped at him. “Love Mr. Wattles—I mean the Duke of Benton?”
And now he was forced to defend the notion. “Surely the unfashionableness of a man’s attire doesn’t make him unlovable.”
“No, of course not.” Miss Hutting’s expression darkened. “Miss Franklin was learning to play the harpsichord.”
Was Miss Hutting losing her hold on her sanity? “What has that to say to the matter? Playing the harpsichord is hardly scandalous.”
“Her teacher was Mr. Wattles. He must have seduced her during her lessons.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Though I really can’t imagine Mr. Wattles as a rake.”
“Then perhaps Miss Franklin seduced poor Mr. Wattles.”
Miss Hutting’s eyes almost popped out of her head.
“Believe me, Miss Hutting, I know from sad experience that women can be the aggressor in such matters.” Miss Rathbone being just one case in point.
She opened her mouth as if to argue, but then blushed furiously.
Interesting. He’d very much like to know what she was thinking—
No, he wouldn’t. If she was thinking what he hoped she was, it would only lead to embarrassment or disaster.
Miss Hutting nodded. “Yes. Of course you’re correct. Though it’s very odd Papa didn’t say anything, even to Mama. He tells Mama everything.”
That didn’t seem at all odd to him. “I suspect Wilkinson swore him to secrecy so as to keep the news from Miss Wilkinson. I got the distinct impression he was hoping to have a new spinster moved in here before his sister knew there was a vacancy.”
She snorted. “That’s probably exactly what Randolph was thinking.”
He raised a brow. “And do you think your father wanted to hide the vacancy from you as well?”
She bit her lip as she considered the matter. He would like to—
No! He would not like to do anything with the girl. They had spent far too much time alone here as it was.
“I don’t think so,” she finally said. “I don’t believe it would have occurred to Papa that I’d want to move out of the vicarage”—her lovely lip curled up into a sneer—“unless I was moving into some man’s home as his wife.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
“Miss Hutting, you may not wish to marry, but marriage is not a curse.” Bloody hell! Did I actually say that? “That is, it’s not a curse for anyone but me.”
She frowned and opened her mouth as if to argue. If she told him one more time to live his life as if Isabelle Dorring had no control over it, he’d throttle her. He spoke quickly.
“Shall we continue our tour?”
Miss Hutting led the way into the kitchen and opened the shutters. He strolled over to examine the cupboard. “These plates look like they’re from Isabelle’s time.”
“Very likely. She must have had a complete set—her father was a wealthy merchant—and single women aren’t very hard on dishes.” She looked up at him. “How many spinsters have there been, do you know?”
“Eight. We’ve been fortunate. The shortest amount of time any woman lived here was fourteen years, but one spinster stayed for forty.”
Miss Hutting grinned. “I expect I’ll be here a long time, too. You won’t have to worry about me running off like Miss Franklin.”
Surely she didn’t know—really know—what she was giving up by choosing never to marry? Had she ever felt a man’s touch, his mouth on—
Stop. It is none of my concern.
“If you win the position,” he said. “Don’t forget Miss Wilkinson is also hoping to live here.”
That transformed her grin into a scowl. “Yes, if I do.”
She turned abruptly and walked toward the back of the house to a room that felt lived in. Books lined the walls. A desk sat at one end and a handsome, old harpsichord at the other. The windows looked out on a lovely, if wild, garden—and on one of the window seats sprawled an orange and black and white cat.
“Hello, Poppy.” Miss Hutting went over to scratch the cat’s ears.
Poppy glared at Marcus.
Another female who has no use for men. “How did the cat get in?”
“I don’t know. Miss Franklin thought there must be a hole somewhere.” Miss Hutting frowned. “She told me Mr. Wattles had helped her look for it, but now I wonder if that’s really what he was doing.”
Silence was his best response. The fact that the woman and Benton had married in haste indicated to him that Benton had been looking for an entirely different sort of entrance. Something he’d like to find—
No. No, of course he wouldn’t.
He wasn’t a very good liar, especially to himself.
“That doesn’t sound safe. I’ll have Mr. Emmett send someone over to investigate. If Poppy can get in, all sorts of vermin can.”
Miss Hutting and the cat both glared at him now.
“Just don’t fix it so Poppy can’t come and go as she pleases. She won’t like that.” Miss Hutting brushed off her skirts. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Poppy leapt off the window seat and, tail high, ran out of the room. They followed in time to see her vanish up the stairs. Miss Hutting started after her.
Marcus paused with his foot on the first step. A mix of dread and anticipation knotted in his chest. Did he really wish to see precisely where the curse had started?
Miss Hutting had already disappeared. He listened to her footsteps echo across the floor above him.
This was probably his only opportunity to see the house. As soon as the next spinster was chosen, he’d leave Loves Bridge forever.
Anticipation—and curiosity—won out over dread. He took the stairs quickly to a small landing with three doors, two open to his right and one closed on his left. He heard Miss Hutting moving around in the closest room on his
right.
“So you decided to come up,” she said as he joined her.
“Yes.” It had been silly to have hesitated. This room was unremarkable, like bedchambers he’d seen in countless other houses, though smaller than what he was used to. The bed was made, but the room gave the impression of having been left hurriedly—on the dressing table, a small, empty scent bottle lay on its side, and several of the wardrobe drawers were partially open. “What’s next door?”
“Let’s see.”
The next room was even smaller and appeared to have once been a study or sitting room, but was now used for storage. One of the window shutters was broken, and a red upholstered armchair, stuffing leaking from its worn seat, was shoved up against it, keeping it from falling.
A tall brass candlestick stood on a heavy, carved cabinet next to an assortment of ceramic figurines, some of which were chipped or missing a body part. The cabinet, though, appeared to be in perfect condition. He opened one of the doors to reveal a number of small, decorated drawers with keyholes. He pulled on one. Locked. “Where do you suppose the key is?”
“I don’t know. It was probably lost decades ago.”
He frowned. “I can’t imagine why Miss Franklin never mentioned this disrepair. I’m sure if Emmett knew of it, he’d have it attended to at once.”
Miss Hutting was admiring a detailed carving of a cat sitting on what appeared to be a windowsill that graced one of the drawers. “Likely Miss Franklin didn’t wish to cause problems. Up until her shocking marriage, I would have said she was quite a timid person.”
“Well, I shall have someone see to this and to the exterior of the building before the next spinster, whoever she shall be, moves in.” He dusted off his hands. “It was an excellent notion to tour the premises. I hope the last room is not in such a state.”
“It may be worse,” Miss Hutting said as they crossed the landing. “The door is closed, after all. Who knows how long it’s been shut away?”
Precisely. It was the thought of seeing rotting fabric and rodent droppings, of breathing in two centuries of dust and dirt that caused his stomach to clench, nothing else. He pushed open the door.
“Ohh.” Miss Hutting sounded almost awestruck. “How lovely.”
The room was the size of the other two combined and looked to be in excellent shape, almost as if Isabelle had just stepped out for a moment. But that was likely only because it was in shadows. Marcus stepped over to open the shutters.
“Look! It’s Isabelle.”
For the space of one convulsive heartbeat, he thought Miss Hutting had seen a ghost.
Good God, he was definitely losing his grip on reality.
He turned to see that the light from the window illuminated a full-length painting of a girl dressed in the long bodice and wide skirt of the early 1600s. Her white clothes were heavily embroidered with blue and red flowers and golden vines; the bodice’s low round neck offered just a glimpse of her breasts. But it was her face, framed by a lace collar and her lovely red hair, that drew him: her high, smooth forehead; her lips, turned up in a slight smile; her green eyes gazing directly at him. She looked young and beautiful and happy. Clearly the painting had been done before she’d met his disreputable ancestor.
She also looked strangely familiar. . . .
He turned to gaze down at Miss Hutting. “You are very much like her.”
“Do you think so?” Miss Hutting tilted her head, examining the picture. “No. It’s just the hair, and perhaps the eyes.”
She was wrong. The similarity was striking, though perhaps Miss Hutting’s chin was firmer and her expression more determined.
He turned back to the painting and frowned. Isabelle was quite pretty, but she wasn’t that extraordinary. There must have been many pretty girls for the third duke to choose from. And while Marcus believed in the curse—he had no choice about that—he did not believe in witches or love potions or any of that other superstitious nonsense. So why the hell had his ancestor squandered his honor and brought disgrace—and the curse—to his line over this girl?
He’d probably never know.
“This room is beautiful.” Miss Hutting had lost interest in the painting and was looking around. “I wonder why Miss Franklin didn’t sleep here.”
Perhaps Miss Franklin had felt the same odd heaviness he did. The walls were dark oak paneling lightened somewhat by a paler wood inlay, but they still made him feel gloomy. Or perhaps it was the thought that his future had been stolen from him in this room—in that bed. The huge four-poster was dark oak as well, with heavy red curtains and—
And Poppy sitting right in the middle of the bedclothes, studiously licking her private parts.
If—when—she lived here, Cat thought, she would make this her bedchamber. It was much larger and nicer than the other room, and it looked out over the garden.
But perhaps the bed was uncomfortable. That might be why Miss Franklin hadn’t chosen it. She leaned on the mattress to test it—and Poppy gave her a nasty look.
Ah. Had Poppy claimed this room then, and Miss Franklin had been too timid to sort things out? Well, she was not so timid. She’d make Poppy a comfortable spot somewhere else. And if the mattress needed replacing, surely the duke would see to it. He was going to have someone deal with the house’s other issues.
The duke was frowning at the painting of Isabelle Dorring again.
When the workers were here, she’d have them move that, too. It felt wrong to toss it on a bonfire, which is what she’d like to do, but at least she could see it tucked securely into the storage room. She did not care to have Isabelle staring down at her while she slept.
She studied the picture. Yes, she’d grant that there was a slight family resemblance. “I think she looks a bit spoiled, if you must know.”
The duke’s eyes snapped down to hers, a deep line between them. “Spoiled? What do you mean?”
“It wouldn’t be so surprising. She was the only child of a rich merchant. She was likely used to getting whatever she wanted, and she wanted your ancestor.”
It really was too bad about the curse. This duke took far too much responsibility for what had happened all those years ago.
His frown deepened. “She was a young woman; the third duke was a wealthy and powerful man. I know at whose door to lay the blame.”
Men’s minds were so narrow. “Isabelle was twenty-four years old, Your Grace. My age. Not a young woman.”
He snorted. “Right. An old crone, awake on every suit, no doubt.”
Could he be more annoying? “I’m sure she knew exactly how to catch the duke’s interest. Women can be very wily, you know.”
“I do know, much to my sorrow.” He raised his eyebrows. “And I thought you were shocked when I suggested Miss Franklin might have seduced Mr. Wattles.”
“You never met Miss Franklin.” Yes, perhaps she wasn’t being entirely rational, but looking at Isabelle’s face now, she’d be willing to bet the girl hadn’t been a helpless victim. “And I don’t mean seduction precisely. Nothing so obvious. I’ve merely observed that women almost always have the cooler head when it comes to romance, even though that may not be the fairy tale men like to tell.”
“Oh? This is news to me.”
Of course it was news to him—he was a man.
“You should pay more attention. Watch people, though I suppose being a duke it’s difficult to fade into the woodwork. But I have to imagine the game is played the same way in London as it is here.”
“Indeed it is. I assure you, women pursue men most assiduously in Town.” His mouth flattened. “I have far too often felt like a fox running before a pack of baying hounds.”
That sounded dreadful, but she believed him. He was titled and wealthy and very, very handsome. “Yes, but I’m referring to a far more subtle game, Your Grace. A woman finds a man she thinks will make a good husband, and then she persuades him to pursue her. I’ve seen my sisters and many of the other village women do it countless times.
”
“Really?” He put his hand on one of the bedposts.
She’d like to wipe that superior look off his face. Patronizing idiot.
“Yes, really. Once a girl has selected the man she wants, she studies his habits. She’ll ‘accidentally’ encounter him on the village green. She’ll smile at him. If he smiles back, she’ll arrange to bump into him after Sunday services, and they’ll share a few words about the sermon. Later, she’ll just happen to be walking to the store when he’s on an errand in the same direction, and they’ll exchange observations about the weather. Before the poor man knows it, he’s completely ensnared. He’s calling on her whenever he can. Finally, he has no choice but to ask for her hand in marriage.”
“But then Isabelle didn’t play the game very well, did she? The third duke didn’t marry her.” His voice was rather low. “Though he got her with child.”
Her cheeks heated. The duke’s words made her stomach flutter again. “That’s true. I imagine she couldn’t believe that anyone would tell her ‘no,’ so she, er, put the cart before the horse, as it were.”
The sun must have gone behind a cloud, because it suddenly seemed dark and quite intimate in the room. Was the duke leaning closer?
She took a small step back.
“You describe such a calculated campaign, Miss Hutting. What about love?” His voice was little more than a whisper, dark and seductive. “What about desire?”
“D-desire?”
Oh, drat, her voice squeaked. He would think her a scared little girl.
She was rather unsettled. Her heart and stomach were fluttering now, and she felt light-headed. Perhaps she was going to be ill.
She grabbed the bedpost to steady herself, her fingers just below the duke’s.
His hand was so much broader, so much stronger, than hers.
“Yes, desire,” he said, his words weaving a spell around her. “The physical need to touch and be touched, to be so close to another person you don’t know where he ends and you begin. It can be painful, that need. It can consume you.”
“Ah.”
She could barely breathe. It felt as if the air was being sucked out of the room.
What to Do with a Duke Page 10
