What to Do with a Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

  Henry let out a long, low whistle. “You might want to consider diving under the table right about now, Your Grace.”

  Indeed, Miss Hutting looked as though she was going to wing her plate at him.

  “Even if your ancestor had been the devil incarnate,” Mrs. Hutting said, shooting Henry a quelling look, “the consequences of his actions should not govern you two hundred years later.”

  “Perhaps they should not, madam, but they do. Every duke since the one Miss Dorring”—he glanced down at Thomas and Michael—“er, met has died before his heir was born.”

  “That sounds like something from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels,” Prudence said.

  “Prudence!” Mrs. Hutting frowned at her daughter. “Where did you get any of Mrs. Radcliffe’s books?”

  “From Mary.”

  “Mary . . .”

  “I got them from Ruth, Mama. She left them behind when she wed.” Mary glared at Prudence. “And I didn’t give them to Pru. She must have stolen them from under my bed.”

  “I was just looking for something to read.”

  “Under Mary’s bed?” Mrs. Hutting’s frown returned to Prudence.

  “It’s Cat’s bed, too.”

  It was Miss Hutting’s turn to frown. “What were you looking for that’s mine, Pru?”

  Prudence ignored her. “You should be glad all I borrowed were those old books, Mary. I could have taken your diary.”

  Mary gasped and lunged across the table. “You better not have read it.”

  Prudence leaned back out of reach. “Why? Would I have found something interesting?”

  Dunly tugged at his cravat and shifted in his seat.

  Ah. Well, marriage absolved all sins.

  “Stop it, girls,” Mrs. Hutting said. “I’m sure His Grace is not used to such unseemly behavior at his meals.”

  That was certainly true. None of the dining room events this evening bore the slightest resemblance to his normally staid and, frankly, boring repasts.

  Mary resumed her seat, her expression promising her sister retaliation later.

  Mrs. Hutting smiled at him. “Your Grace, as you know, Theo and Mary are going to be wed in less than two weeks’ time. I do hope, if you are still in residence, you will join us for the celebration.”

  He usually avoided weddings like the plague, but Mrs. Hutting was looking at him so hopefully, he didn’t have the heart to decline outright.

  “Thank you, madam. If I’m still here, I would be happy to attend.”

  “And your friends, Lords Haywood and Evans, are welcome, too, of course.”

  “I will tell them.” There was virtually no chance Alex and Nate would come, but he’d leave it to them to send their regrets.

  “And, er . . .” Mrs. Hutting looked down to arrange the angles of the knife and fork on her plate.

  Oh, hell. What’s coming now?

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Your Grace, since London is not so far away, whether you know of anyone who might be willing to come down to play the pianoforte for the festivities.” Mrs. Hutting smiled at him. “Mr. Wattles’s—that is, the duke’s—departure has disrupted our plans, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Hutting nodded. “Indeed. We would never wish to stand in the way of true love, of course—”

  There was no “of course” about it. Marcus caught the grim look Mrs. Hutting sent the vicar. He’d wager the good woman would have thrown herself between Miss Franklin and the Duke of Benton gladly if it would have kept the duke in Loves Bridge for Mary’s wedding.

  “—but we could wish the timing had been better.” The vicar smiled. “For us. I assume the timing was just right for the duke and his new duchess.”

  “It’s all right, Papa,” Mary said. “We don’t need anyone to play the pianoforte.”

  Dunly wisely kept out of the discussion.

  The vicar frowned. “I suppose we can forgo music at the ceremony, though I was hoping to find someone to play the organ, but what about the dancing afterward, Mary?”

  “Mr. Linden is quite a good fiddler and—”

  “We cannot dance to Mr. Linden’s fiddling.” Mrs. Hutting looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon.

  “We do at every other party, Mama.”

  “Well, we won’t at your wedding.” She sighed. “At least I hope we won’t.”

  He shouldn’t say anything, but the words were out before he could stop them. “Lord Haywood is an accomplished musician, madam. I don’t know if he’ll still be in Loves Bridge by the time of the wedding—he and Lord Evans had planned to go walking in the Lake District.” Which hopefully they will still do—with me. “But I can inquire.”

  “Oh, would you, Your Grace?” Mrs. Hutting looked at him as if he’d just offered her the crown jewels. “That would be wonderful, if Lord Haywood is available and willing, of course.”

  “Yes, well, I can’t promise anything.”

  “I completely understand, Your Grace.”

  But she was beaming at him. He felt committed to dragging Nate to the wedding or finding some other musician.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I need to get the younger children to bed. Come along Thomas, Michael, Sybil, Prudence. Say good night to His Grace.”

  The girls curtseyed; Thomas managed a bow.

  Michael grabbed Marcus’s large hand with his small one and looked anxiously into his eyes. “I like you, dook,” he whispered. “Please marry Cat.”

  “Come along, Michael,” Mrs. Hutting called as she shepherded the others out of the room. “Stop teasing His Grace.”

  “He’s not teasing me, Mrs. Hutting.” But what answer could he give the boy? Marcus gently squeezed Mikey’s fingers. “We’ll see. Now, go along. Sleep well.”

  Mikey started to leave and then, all at once, turned back and flung his arms around Marcus’s neck, hugging him tightly before running off to join his mother. It happened so quickly and was so unexpected, Marcus didn’t have time to react.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the vicar said, worry clouding his eyes. “I hope Mikey didn’t give offense.”

  Marcus struggled to control his emotions, but he was afraid his face reflected the shock he felt. At least, he hoped that was all it revealed.

  “Of course Michael didn’t give offence, Mr. Hutting.” He thought that came out rather well.

  Oh, God. The feel of those small arms around my neck, the soft cheek brushing against my . . .

  He wished he’d hugged the boy back.

  Nate’s parents had not been overtly affectionate. They’d loved each other—Marcus had never doubted that—but their love had been a restrained, formal love as befitted the Marquess and Marchioness of Haywood. He and Nate had spent most of their time with servants—nurses and governesses and tutors.

  This family was very different.

  Of course it was. Mr. Hutting might have been born to an earl, but he was now a vicar. He didn’t have the funds for an army of servants to care for his sizeable brood.

  “Boys,” the vicar told Henry and Walter, “you may be excused. Make your bows, and don’t forget you each owe me translations in the morning.” He raised an eyebrow. “I hope the work is well under way, if not completed.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “I was just going to finish it, Papa.”

  The vicar watched them go and then turned back to Marcus. “They are good boys, Your Grace. Perhaps not scholars—though I actually have some hope for Walter—but good-hearted.” Pride shone clearly in his eyes.

  An emotion I’ll never have the opportunity to feel.

  “They’re hellions,” Miss Hutting said. “Always kicking up some sort of lark.”

  The vicar laughed. “They’re boys, Cat. That’s what boys do.”

  Miss Hutting frowned. “And, Papa, they’ve been teasing me unmercifully about—” She looked over at Marcus and flushed.

  Interesting.

  She jerked her eyes back to her father. “That is, they’ve been teaching Tho
mas and Michael the most inappropriate language.”

  “As my brothers taught me.” The vicar laughed again. “I hate to say it, Cat, but that’s probably the least objectionable thing that Walter and Henry will pass on to the twins.” He looked at Marcus. “I’m the fourth of four boys, Your Grace. I’m afraid I speak from experience.”

  “Your daughter told me you’re Penland’s brother, sir. I can’t say I’m well acquainted with the earl, but I do know his son. I wouldn’t have thought either of them hellions. On the contrary, I believe they have a reputation for being very strict and proper.”

  “Yes, now. That’s the work of the countess. She—” The vicar pressed his lips together and shook his head. “And here I am, a man of the cloth on the verge of speaking ill of my sister-in-law. That will never do.” He put his hands on the arms of his chair. “Let’s adjourn to the drawing room, shall we, and have some brandy”—he smiled—“and tea for the ladies?”

  Marcus stood with the rest of those left in the dining room—the vicar, Miss Hutting, Mary, and Dunly.

  “I’m afraid I have to decline your offer, sir. I need to return to the castle.” He’d had about all he could bear of such a comfortable family life. “I’ve left my friends to their own devices long enough.”

  Dunly’s face fell. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll—”

  “Oh, no, I don’t wish to curtail your visit with your betrothed, Mr. Dunly. I can find my own way back to the castle.”

  “If . . . if you’re certain, Your Grace.”

  He’d better be certain. Dunly was trying manfully to mask his relief, but Mary wasn’t. Her smile almost blinded him.

  Such simple, straightforward love.

  “Of course I am. Good night.” He bowed.

  “I’ll see you to the door, Your Grace,” Miss Hutting said.

  Some emotion, rather darker and more complicated than Dunly’s, stirred in his gut, turning to an intense ache in the most predictable part of his anatomy as he followed Miss Hutting and watched her hips sway.

  My heart aches, too. Is this what love feels like?

  Of course not. This emotion wasn’t the chaste and virtuous one lauded by poets. It was intensely, painfully carnal.

  He must have an especially bad case of lust.

  Miss Hutting led him to the door—and then outside and down the walk.

  Hmm. What is she about?

  “Do you plan to escort me all the way to the castle, then?”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “Of course not. I just wish to speak to you in private.” She headed for a clump of tall bushes that appeared not to have benefitted from a gardener’s attention recently, if ever.

  “We can converse here without being overheard or observed,” she said, and stepped through a narrow gap in the foliage.

  His eyebrows almost shot off his forehead.

  My, my.

  If this were bold Miss Rathbone, he’d be certain his freedom—and thus his life—was in danger. But this was Miss Hutting, one of the most determined candidates for the position of Spinster House spinster.

  “Are you coming?” Her voice hissed from the greenery. “Or are you going to stand there like a complete lobcock all evening?”

  Such seductive words.

  He should stay where he was, but his raging lust moved from his . . . heart to his head, sending rational thought packing.

  “I’m coming.” He stepped into the small, shadowy space. “I’m here.”

  There was hardly enough room for both of them—or maybe it was merely his intense awareness of Miss Hutting that made the place feel close and intimate and tempting.

  He could not be tempted.

  Temptation was thick in the air, in the light scent of her hair, in the curve of her cheek . . . of her breast.

  “What did you wish to discuss?” That had come out rather harsher than he’d intended.

  “Shh! If you don’t keep your voice down, we’ll be discovered.”

  “Yes.” And then they’d be marched lock-step to the altar.

  It was a very bad sign that the thought didn’t cause him to run for the castle.

  “So why did you drag me into these bushes?”

  “I didn’t drag you,” she whispered. “You came of your own accord.”

  No, it was the lust that agreed to this, not me.

  “I needed to talk to you privately, and I couldn’t do that inside. I want to be sure you understand why I must win the Spinster House position tomorrow.”

  Was Prudence correct? Had Miss Hutting been casting sheep’s-eyes at me?

  “But my understanding isn’t necessary, Miss Hutting. Isabelle determined how the matter would be settled two hundred years ago. It is all to be left to chance.” She had no more control over her fate in this instance than he had ever had over his. “To luck, good or bad.”

  He moved a little closer. She put a hand on his chest.

  “Be careful. You’re about to step on my toes.” She frowned. “I never realized how large you are. You take up a lot of space.”

  “Mmm.” He covered her hand with one of his. He expected her to jerk away, but she didn’t. “Why do you want the Spinster House so badly, Catherine?”

  He hadn’t meant to use her Christian name, but it felt very good on his tongue.

  Other things would feel good on his tongue, too. Her lips, her breasts, her—

  She’d stiffened. Was she going to slap him? She would be wise to do so.

  “Everyone calls me Cat, Your Grace.” Her voice sounded husky.

  She hadn’t bothered to put on her bonnet when they’d left the vicarage. He wanted to touch her hair, to undo its pins and watch it tumble down over her shoulders. He wanted to bury his hands and face in the silky mass.

  “But I will call you Catherine.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. It was almost as soft as her little brother’s. “And you must call me Marcus.”

  “M-Marcus? I could never do that.”

  Did she realize her other hand had also come up to rest on his chest? He covered it, too. “You just did.”

  “No, I . . .” She shook her head as if to clear it. She must feel the same drugging heat clouding her thoughts that he did. “Why are you—”

  “Shh.” He put his fingers over her lips. They were softer than her cheek. “You don’t want to be discovered, remember?”

  What would happen if I put my mouth where my fingers are?

  Need throbbed in him—in his cock, but also in his heart and in his mind. He shouldn’t do this. He knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted it. Just a taste. That was all.

  If only he were an ordinary man like Theo Dunly. A man who could court a pretty girl, who could steal a kiss, who could think about marriage and dream of a future with a wife and children and perhaps someday even grandchildren.

  “Didn’t you see how it is with my family? How crowded and noisy? How it’s impossible to have any privacy? I never have a moment to myself.” Catherine leaned into him, completely caught up in her need to persuade him.

  She was persuading him, but not to the action she wished.

  “I have too many moments to myself,” he said.

  “Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose so, but your situation is vastly different, Your Grace.”

  “Marcus. Please, Catherine. Marcus.”

  Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, and he was lost.

  “M-Marcus,” she said.

  And then he kissed her.

  Chapter Eleven

  May 25, 1617—Marcus kissed me! He was taking his leave, and just before he opened the door, almost as if against his will, he bent and brushed his lips over mine. My first kiss! I believe I’m well and truly in love.

  —from Isabelle Dorring’s diary

  Cat turned over in bed and stared up at the shadowy ceiling. The candles had been blown out and the fire banked. The house was quiet. She should be asleep. She had to have her wits about her tomorrow when they drew lots for the Spinster House.

 
; Oh, God. She closed her eyes. The Duke of Hart had kissed her. It had been nothing like she’d imagined kissing to be. There’d been no mashing mouths or bumping noses. It had been just the briefest brush of his lips against hers, but she’d felt it all the way to her soul.

  She felt it now, but in a rather more carnal location.

  Her eyes flew open. Heat flooded her face—no, her entire body. Very odd bits of her ached.

  She’d never thought he’d kiss her. She hadn’t thought of kissing at all when she’d brought him into the bushes. She’d been thinking only of the Spinster House.

  He was so tall and broad. He’d smelled of wine and wool and something dark and musky and exciting. Tempting. And when he’d whispered her name—Catherine—his voice had been so warm and—she grew even hotter—seductive.

  She was glad now that no one else ever called her by her full name.

  “Will you stop tossing and turning?”

  Oh, drat. Mary was awake.

  Her sister leaned up on her elbow. “What is the matter with you, Cat?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’ll try to lie still.”

  “Why don’t you try to sleep?” Mary pushed her hair back off her face and then sat up all the way, wrapping her arms around her knees as if she planned to have a long chat. “It’s the duke, isn’t it?”

  Perhaps if she ignored her, Mary would lie down again. Cat closed her eyes.

  “It must be the duke. You’ve never had any trouble sleeping before. It’s quite disgusting how easily you drop off—and then you snore to wake the dead.”

  Her eyes flew open again. “I do not!”

  Did she snore? What if the duke—

  Good God, she was losing her mind. The duke was never going to be in a position to hear whether she snored or not.

  “Yes, you do. I always try to fall asleep first or else I have to wait until you stop. After a while you sort of snort and snuffle and quiet down.”

  Cat glared at Mary. “You’re mistaken.”

  “How would you know? You’re asleep. You can’t hear yourself.”

  Cat contemplated the ceiling again. With any luck, she’d be sleeping at the Spinster House soon and would never have to share a bed again.