And I would have been trapped here, too.
Yes, he would have had his mother, but it was unlikely she’d have been happy. And he wouldn’t have had Aunt Margaret and Uncle Philip and Nate. They would have visited—Uncle Philip was his guardian—but it would not have been the same.
He would have had a very lonely childhood.
“And, remember, your aunt had seen the terrible effects of the curse better than anyone. She was five years old when her father died and your father was born. She lived with your grandmother until she married your uncle.” Mrs. Cullen frowned. “Well, no, she lived with a succession of nannies and governesses. The duchess was too busy attending parties and other social events to be bothered with her children. When I considered how she’d grown up, I found I really couldn’t fault her for assuming I would be the same sort of mother.”
“The women who marry the Cursed Duke have always been more interested in being widows than wives.”
Her frown turned into a scowl. “Not me. And perhaps not the others. One never knows what occurs in someone else’s marriage or how another person copes with grief.”
He was willing to grant that Mrs. Cullen hadn’t married for greed, but he was not so quick to give the other duchesses that benefit of the doubt.
She sighed as if conceding she’d not convince him. “So as to the Italian count—your aunt came up with that story to explain to the ton where I’d gone. She said everyone would believe it, and I could vanish back into anonymity, which is exactly what I did. As soon as I could travel after your aunt and uncle took you, I left Loves Bridge and went home to Ireland. Not to my old home, of course. My father’s wife still didn’t want me there. I rented a house in Dublin.
“I wrote to your aunt regularly, and she wrote back, telling me how you got on.” Her smile was rather sad. “You seemed to be flourishing without me. And then I met and married my husband and got very busy helping him with his medical practice and raising our sons and I . . .” She sniffed and pulled out her handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. “I let you go. I believed you’d found a better home than I could ever give you. Your uncle was your guardian, after all. You needed to be brought up as the Duke of Hart.”
That was true.
She leaned toward him then, opening a locket she wore and showing him the picture inside. “And I never forgot you, Marcus. See? This is a miniature your aunt sent me, painted when you were ten years old.”
He looked at his young face. He remembered when that was done, just a month or two before he’d come to Loves Bridge and sat through his uncle’s interview with Miss Franklin.
Mrs. Cullen grinned. “And I’ll confess I do have a few friends in London besides your aunt. I hear things—like your recent experience with a Miss Rathbone.”
Did she think to criticize him? “I was not about to marry that scheming hussy.”
“Of course not. The girl didn’t love you. And, more importantly, you didn’t love her.”
“Er, yes.” He shifted in his seat. He hadn’t expected Mrs. Cullen to support him in his handling of Miss Rathbone.
“Well, I have taken enough of your time, I’m sure, Your Grace.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “But I hope you believe me. I have told you the truth.”
He stood when she did. “Yes, Mrs. Cullen, I do believe you.” Even though her story made his head spin.
He glanced up to see the third duke’s portrait. But there was one question his mother had yet to answer. “Perhaps you could tell me one more truth. If you cared for me as you say you did, why did you saddle me with that popinjay’s name? Wasn’t bearing his title punishment enough?”
She looked up at the painting, too. “Your father wished you to be named Marcus,” she said. “I don’t know why.” She looked back at him. “But I do know why I agreed to it.” She smiled and touched his arm. “I hoped you would be the one to break Isabelle Dorring’s curse.”
Chapter Fourteen
June 15, 1617—Rosaline just got betrothed to the blacksmith. I overheard it at the market—she and Maria don’t talk to me any longer. They say I’m no better than I should be. Nasty cows! I can’t wait to see their faces when I become the Duchess of Hart. I know Marcus is on the verge of proposing.
—from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
Marcus had never been so happy to close his bedchamber door in his life. He had a pounding headache.
Mrs. Cullen was still here. He’d invited her and her husband to stay at the castle, and she’d accepted, though only for tonight. Tomorrow they would set out to return to Ireland.
He poured himself a healthy dose of brandy and collapsed onto what might be the only comfortable chair in the entire castle, closing his eyes and resting his head on the chair’s upholstered back.
God! His mind was still reeling from the day’s events. His interview with Catherine had been bad enough, but then to meet his mother . . .
He felt like a newly blind man stumbling through an ever-changing maze. Everything he thought he’d known was now in question.
He stared into the fire, taking a sip of brandy, hoping the alcohol’s warmth would melt the cold knot in his stomach.
He should go back to London. His life there was much less confusing. In Town, he knew who he was and what was expected of him. He hated it, but at least he didn’t feel so powerless.
God! He pressed the fingers of his free hand into his forehead, his thoughts tumbling over each other.
His mother and his aunt had lied to him. They’d made up the Italian count.
But the lie had served its purpose. It had freed his mother from the nasty London gabble grinders. And in an odd way, it now freed him. The shallow woman he’d been embarrassed to acknowledge wasn’t his mother at all—she was just a story, brought to life by the ton’s groundless speculation.
Still, his mother had admitted she’d given him up, and with some relief.
But what else could she have done? If she’d been forced to live as the Duchess of Hart would she have ended up as cold and heartless as her predecessors? And if she hadn’t given him up, he wouldn’t have grown up with Nate and Aunt Margaret and Uncle Philip.
She’d never written him, yet she wore a locket with his miniature.
He was a grown man. He didn’t need a mother.
So why did he feel as if some empty place inside him had been filled?
He took a large sip of brandy and sunk lower in the chair.
He liked her. He hadn’t expected to, but he did. He’d enjoyed dinner very much. She and her husband had been entertaining companions, talking knowledgeably about all sorts of subjects, none of which had anything to do with the ton.
He swallowed the last of his brandy. There was no point in stewing over things anymore tonight. He’d go to bed. A good night’s sleep, if he could manage it, should put things in perspective.
He started to remove his coat and felt something in one of his pockets. Oh, right. With everything that had happened today, he’d completely forgotten about the little book he’d found in the desk’s secret compartment.
He pulled it out to examine. It was old, its pages yellowed and brittle. He carried it over to the light.
It was a diary. The handwriting looked like a man’s. And the date—
1617.
Zeus! It must have belonged to the third duke.
He put it on the table and pulled his hands away as if burned. He didn’t want to know what twaddle that blackguard had committed to paper.
Or did he?
The man had haunted his life, casting a pall over even the simplest pleasures. Perhaps he should know the fellow’s thoughts. He might better understand what had happened two hundred years ago.
He opened the book again and read the first entry. Yes, the diary had indeed belonged to the third duke. The man’s handwriting was large and bold and confident. He was obsessed with the typical things a London buck cared about: horses and hunting and women and various court intrigues. Not much had changed in two h
undred years. There was a long diatribe about his tailor and almost two pages describing an opera singer the man was lusting after.
But had the fellow written about Isabelle?
Marcus turned a few more pages. Ah, yes. Here it was.
April 16, 1617—I should come down to the castle more frequently. The girls in Loves Bridge admire me greatly. One comely baggage is pursuing me—she manages to turn up wherever I go. Her name is Isabelle Dorring, and her dead father was a rich merchant. And she lives alone—no chaperone—in a house across from the vicarage. I think I shall further our acquaintance. I could do with a little bit of fun.
His ancestor was exactly what he’d thought him—a complete blackguard. What sort of man takes advantage of a country miss?
Your sort.
At least that is what the villagers must think.
Damnation. He’d tried to do the right thing by Catherine. He’d offered for her. He couldn’t help it if she refused to have him.
But when I kissed her, she kissed me back. Perhaps I can—
Perhaps he should leave well enough alone. She’d said she wanted to live by herself. He should respect her decision.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his ears open. He’d ask Dunly to let him know how she went on. If she was wrong about the gossip dying down, he would ask her again to marry. Then she might be willing to accept him.
He scowled down at the diary. I should put it away.
No, I should burn it.
If he was going to burn it, he might as well read a little more.
Hmm. By April 20, the duke’s tone had changed. Now he was writing of Isabelle’s beauty—her lovely eyes, her entrancing dimples, her wondrous form. He was beginning to sound rather besotted.
Oh, God, the fellow had even tried his hand at poetry.
Marcus turned that page quickly.
This was interesting. The duke wrote that his mother did not like Isabelle. She thought the girl quite common—a merchant’s daughter, don’t you know. Fine for a quick tumble, but not at all acceptable as a duchess. She forbade him seeing her again and dragged him up to Town, thrusting him into the company of the female she had selected for him: Lady Amanda Mannerly, the Duke of Blendale’s daughter, who, if memory served, had indeed become the third duke’s wife.
Clearly the mother had the stronger will of the two, though the milksop son spent a number of diary pages protesting. He sneaked behind his mother’s back, visiting Isabelle—and Isabelle’s bed—when the duchess was in London. The final entry was written with slashing strokes, full of cross outs and splotches that might be—though Marcus hoped were not—evidence of tears.
July 10, 1617—I love Isabelle. I am going to marry her. I don’t care what Mama says. She can’t force me to wed Lady Amanda. If she drags me up the church aisle, I shall refuse to say my vows. I have given myself—soul, body, and mind—to my Isabelle. I will never love another.
Eh. If only the Minerva Press had been in existence back then. The fellow could have had quite a career penning overwrought novels.
The fact was, for all his protestations to the contrary, the third duke had married Lady Amanda even though Isabelle was carrying his child. There was no excuse for that, but it was somewhat comforting to learn his ancestor hadn’t been a cold-blooded devil. He’d apparently cared for Miss Dorring. Too bad he hadn’t had more backbone. Two hundred years of misery could have been averted if he’d only had the will to tell his mother no.
Marcus put the diary on his dresser and finished getting ready for bed. He had a backbone. He wouldn’t force himself on Catherine, but he would make very certain she was happy with her decision to remain unwed. He wouldn’t leave Loves Bridge until he’d spoken to her about it once more.
Someone knocked at the front door.
Cat’s heart jumped, and she looked up from her writing. “Who could that be?”
Poppy yawned and scratched her ear. She was in her favorite spot on the window seat again, watching the birds in the garden.
Could it be Marcus? Cat’s heart started again in slow, painful thuds. She’d tossed and turned all night, remembering his kisses.
She couldn’t see him again, not yet.
“No, I don’t think it’s the duke. The knocking is different from yesterday’s.” It was insistent, but not as forceful. “It’s probably Mary. I’ll ignore her, and she’ll go away.”
Poppy gave her a disdainful look before jumping down and running into the other room.
“You’re not going to sit in the front window, are you?” Cat called after her. “That will make whoever it is think I’m at home.”
Poppy did not reply.
“Drat!” She put down her pen. She supposed she should go see who it was.
Poppy was indeed in the window when Cat crossed the sitting room, and their mysterious visitor was still knocking. She put her hand on the latch. Did she want it to be Marcus or not?
She wasn’t certain.
Well, she couldn’t stand here like a statue all day. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Oh.” It wasn’t Marcus. It was a tall, thin woman with kind eyes.
The woman smiled. “Good morning. I’m looking for Miss Catherine Hutting.” Her voice had an Irish lilt.
“I’m Miss Hutting.”
“Splendid. Might I come in?”
Oh, dear, she suddenly realized who this must be. “Er, of course.”
“Thank you.” Her guest stepped inside and removed her bonnet, revealing black hair threaded with gray.
“You’re the Duchess of Hart, aren’t you, Your Grace?” Theo had told Mary last night that the duke’s mother was visiting, and Mary had hurried over to tell her. Though why Mary would think she was at all interested—
All right, she knew why Mary thought she’d be interested. Mary was a romantic at heart. She still hoped Cat would marry the duke.
“I was the duchess a long time ago, Miss Hutting. I’ve since remarried and am now known as Mrs. Cullen.”
“I see.” Theo had told Mary that, too. Cat glanced back out the door. “Is your husband with you?”
“He’s over at the vicarage, talking with your father. He thought—quite rightly—that I’d like a private word with you.”
“Ah.” Cat reluctantly closed the door. Why would Marcus’s mother wish to speak privately with her? Hopefully the woman would be quick about stating her business.
Mrs. Cullen had finished looking around the room and was smiling at her again. Sadly she did not appear to be at all anxious to come to the point.
She could ask her the reason for her visit.
No, that felt rude. Cat forced herself to smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
Poppy came over meowing, and Mrs. Cullen smiled. Something about her expression reminded Cat of the duke.
“What a beautiful animal,” Mrs. Cullen said, stooping to scratch Poppy behind the ears. “Is she yours?”
“Oh, no. Poppy lives here, but she doesn’t belong to me. She doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Mrs. Cullen laughed. “Isn’t that the way of all cats?”
“I suppose so. Poppy’s the only cat I’ve had much contact with.”
Poppy sounded like a swarm of bees, she was purring so loudly. Mrs. Cullen must know the precise spot to rub.
“If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll just go put some water on.” The house came with a generous stipend, but Cat hadn’t felt the need—or the desire—to hire a servant. Miss Franklin had done for herself well enough. Cat could, too.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to take our tea in the kitchen?” Mrs. Cullen gave Poppy one last stroke and straightened. “You mustn’t think I live like an English duchess, Miss Hutting. I’m not used to being waited on. My husband is a physician, and we had three boys together, so I’ve lived most of my life in happy chaos. A quiet cup of tea in a cheery kitchen sounds splendid.”
“Oh. Yes. All right. If you’ll
come this way, then.”
Cat led Mrs. Cullen into the kitchen, which wasn’t particularly cheery, though the sun streaming in the window made it tolerable. Poppy went straight to a warm patch on the stone floor and stretched out. Thankfully it was early enough in the day that the sun had not yet reached the middle of the room. That would have been all Cat needed. She’d tripped over Poppy several times since she’d moved in. She did not care to do her frantic balance-saving dance to the tune of an annoyed Poppy’s caterwauling in front of Marcus’s mother.
“I’ve never seen the inside of the Spinster House. It’s rather”—Mrs. Cullen sat at the old wooden table—“cozy.”
Old and dilapidated were better adjectives. Cat put the water on to boil and then sliced the seedcake her mother had sent over the day before. Once she had everything ready, she put it on the table, sat down, and mustered her courage.
“Mrs. Cullen, I don’t mean to be unmannerly, but—”
The woman smiled as she took a slice of cake. “But you are wondering why I’ve come to see you.”
“Well, yes.”
“Of course you are.” Mrs. Cullen broke off a bit of her seedcake. “You see, I’m a meddler, Miss Hutting. I didn’t begin life that way, but raising my three younger sons has taught me that sometimes it’s important to give people a push in the right direction.” Something that looked like sadness shadowed her eyes briefly. “And I suppose I feel that since I wasn’t there to raise Marcus, I owe it to him to help him find happiness.”
“Oh?” Cat shifted in her seat. This conversation—or, more likely, monologue—looked to be going in a very uncomfortable direction. She should show the woman the door. Her writing time was slipping away.
What to Do with a Duke Page 21
