“Indeed.” Mrs. Cullen leaned toward Cat. “I love Marcus, Miss Hutting. Yesterday might have been the first time I’d seen him since shortly after his birth, but I assure you not a day has gone by these last thirty years that I haven’t thought about him.”
She’d abandoned her poor baby, and now she said she loved him? “But you gave him up.”
Oh, lud, she shouldn’t have said that. She should have kept her tongue between her teeth and let the woman talk. The sooner she said her piece, the sooner she’d leave.
Mrs. Cullen’s brows slanted down. “I did, but I was persuaded it was for his benefit.” She sighed. “And, really, what could I have offered him beyond my love? The world Marcus was destined to live in was totally foreign to me, and I would never have been allowed to take him with me to Ireland.” She laughed. “Can you imagine the great Duke of Hart growing up in a little Dublin town house?”
“No.” Put that way, yes, she could see why the woman had done what she had, though remaining absent for so long—
That was none of her concern. “Mrs. Cullen, I still don’t understand. What does any of this have to do with me?”
“I think my son might love you—or at least come to do so.”
“What?!”
Poppy did not care for Cat’s sharp tone. She lifted her head off the sunny spot on the floor and growled.
Mrs. Cullen, however, laughed. “I told you I was a meddler. I asked Mr. Emmett how Marcus went on and, after that conversation, I spoke to Mr. Dunly. They mentioned you—and some interesting rumors that are going through the village.”
Oh, drat.
“And then I chatted with your parents before I came over here. Your father told me he gave my son permission to court you.”
No wonder Mrs. Cullen had sought her out. “Yes, but you needn’t worry I’ll marry him. I won’t.”
Mrs. Cullen’s brows rose. “But he’s compromised you.”
“No, he hasn’t. That story was started by one of the women who lost the Spinster House lottery. It’ll die down soon.”
Marcus’s mother studied her. “So the rumors are completely groundless?”
“Er, y-yes.” She did wish she was better at lying. “It was just . . . that is . . . well, you see . . .”
Cat took a large bite of seedcake to keep her unruly tongue from leading her deeper into the hole she was digging.
Mrs. Cullen smiled. “My son would not have talked to your parents if he didn’t feel something for you, Miss Hutting.”
Cat choked on a crumb that went down the wrong way. “Oh, no. You are mistaken.”
If only it were true.
It wasn’t true, of course. The woman knew nothing of the matter. She might be Marcus’s mother, but she’d only just met him. “He talked to my parents because of the gossip. You can be sure I quickly disabused him of the notion that he was under any obligation to me.”
Mrs. Cullen shook her head. “Oh, no, Miss Hutting. You must know the Duke of Hart would not be offering marriage simply because people think he’s compromised you. Many women have tried to trap him over the years, and he has always refused to be trapped.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t seen the duke since his birth, Mrs. Cullen.”
She smiled. “Ah, but I’m his mother. I have eyes everywhere. I did make a few friends when I was the duchess, and they, as well as his aunt, write to tell me what he’s doing, especially now that he’s turned thirty.” Her expression darkened. “The urge to marry grows stronger once the Duke of Hart reaches that age.”
Drat. So that dreadful curse was behind this, too. “All the more reason not to accept his offer—not that I’m at all interested in marriage with him or anyone.”
“Really? You’ve no desire for a man’s touch?”
“No! Of course not.” If only her face wasn’t burning.
And if only Mrs. Cullen’s gaze wasn’t so probing. “It’s true some women don’t feel desire, but I’m thinking you’re not one of them.”
Cat rearranged the cake crumbs on her plate. “I’ve no time for marriage. I wish to write novels.”
Mrs. Cullen frowned. “Can’t you do that as a married woman?”
People who had never tried to write a book had no idea what was involved. “No. A husband and children take up far too much time and energy, Mrs. Cullen, as I’m sure you must know.”
The woman’s frown deepened. “I cannot agree with you. I may never have tried to write a book, but even when our sons were very young, I helped my husband with his work.” A note of pride crept into her voice. “Besides seeing patients who can pay, Dr. Cullen treats many of Dublin’s poor.”
She took a sip of tea and regarded Cat over her teacup. “You have to live life so you have something to write about, don’t you? How can your characters feel joy or sorrow or love or hate if you’ve not felt those emotions yourself?”
She had felt those things, rather more often since she’d met the duke. “Are you saying single women can’t be writers, Mrs. Cullen?”
“No. But the question is, Miss Hutting, where are you going to feel more intensely—alone in this house or together with my son?”
Together with Marcus.
She couldn’t say that. “Here, of course.”
Mrs. Cullen’s right brow flew up. “That is not what your parents and your sister Mary think.” She smiled. “In fact, your entire family—including your charming youngest brothers—think you belong with my son.”
No. She couldn’t marry Marcus. What if the curse was true? What if she conceived and Marcus died?
Panic made her voice slightly breathless. “Tom and Mike like the duke because his horse doesn’t bite and his cook bakes good biscuits.”
Mrs. Cullen chuckled. “I do have to say dinner was excellent last night, but I think your family is more interested in your happiness than in horses or baked goods.”
Enough was enough. If she didn’t bring this conversation to a close, she was sure to say something she’d regret. “Mrs. Cullen—”
Marcus’s mother put her hands on Cat’s. “Please, just listen to me, Miss Hutting. I’m sorry to force myself on you this way, but what I have to say is very important to me, and I think—I hope—to you and Marcus as well.” She squeezed Cat’s hands gently. “This is my only chance to say it. As soon as we are done here, my husband and I are continuing our journey to Dublin. We’ve been away too long as it is.”
Cat sighed. “Very well. I will listen.” It was probably the most efficient way to end this uncomfortable meeting.
“Merrow.” Poppy suddenly jumped up onto the table. Fortunately she didn’t land on the seedcake plate or knock over a teacup.
“Poppy, where are your manners?” She moved to push Poppy back onto the floor.
“Oh, let Poppy stay, Miss Hutting.” Mrs. Cullen stroked Poppy’s head and set her to purring again. “I don’t mind the wee cat.”
There was nothing wee about Poppy, but chances were if Cat tried to push Poppy off the table, Poppy would just jump back up. The creature was very stubborn.
“I believe you had something to tell me, Mrs. Cullen?” She let some impatience show in her voice.
Mrs. Cullen’s hand stopped—and Poppy complained. She started stroking again. “I want to tell you about my marriage to Marcus’s father.”
Cat definitely didn’t want to hear that. “Mrs. Barker already shared the story.”
Marcus’s mother frowned. “Oh? What did Ursula say?”
“Er, not very much.” She shouldn’t have mentioned it. When would she learn to hold her tongue?
Mrs. Cullen gave her a long look. “Knowing Ursula, she told you Gerald was a womanizer who married me because that was the only way he could get me into his bed.”
There was no point in disputing it. “She did say you loved him, though. And that you didn’t believe in the curse.”
Mrs. Cullen suddenly looked years older. “Yes, that’s true.”
“Do you believe in the cu
rse now?” If the curse wasn’t real—
No, she still shouldn’t marry Marcus.
Poppy gave an odd little growl and looked up at Mrs. Cullen. Marcus’s mother must have stopped petting her.
“I don’t know. I suppose in a way I do, though I’m not convinced Isabelle Dorring is to blame for it.”
“W-what do you mean?”
Poppy jumped off the table. Mrs. Cullen picked up a seedcake crumb that had escaped and put it on her plate. “The Dukes of Hart do not have happy childhoods, Miss Hutting, though I believe—I hope—Marcus is the exception.” She smiled and tapped the table to emphasize her points.
“Think about it. They never know their fathers and, until my husband’s generation, never had any siblings. Their mothers—well, the story is their mothers are selfish, cold creatures interested only in wealth and prestige, but since I was painted with that brush, I’m willing to believe that at least some of those duchesses loved their babies. More likely they were pushed out of their sons’ lives by the men who became the dukes’ guardians.”
Cat could certainly agree that that was a distinct possibility. Men, especially men who thought they had important duties, could be very highhanded.
Mrs. Cullen shrugged. “Be that as it may, it can’t be disputed that the poor boys are told from the time they can understand that they will die before their own son is born. That rather casts a pall over one’s expectations of life, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.” Poor Marcus.
“I gave Marcus to his aunt to raise for many reasons, but one was that if she took him, Marcus would grow up with his cousin, Nate. I hoped if he had a more normal childhood, he might learn how to love.”
Mrs. Cullen leaned forward and touched Cat’s hands again. “I do think Marcus cares for you, Miss Hutting. I think you and he might be able to break the curse, which is why I’ve taken so much of your time today.”
Break the curse? “I’m sure you are mistaken.”
“I loved Marcus’s father when I married him. I thought my love would be enough, but it wasn’t.”
“Mrs. Cullen, I am not marrying your son.”
“I think he will ask you again. He will not give up. He considers himself obligated—”
“I’ve told him that he is not.”
“—but I believe he . . .” Mrs. Cullen sighed and bit her lip. “I’m not certain he loves you yet, but I’m positive he feels something for you. If it is only lust, you must remain adamant that you won’t have him.”
Marcus lusting for her? The thought was rather exciting.. . .
No. No, it wasn’t.
“You do not have to worry, Mrs. Cullen. I am a dedicated spinster.”
The woman went on as if Cat hadn’t spoken.
“But if it is love . . .” Her face almost glowed. “If Marcus loves you, Miss Hutting, the curse will be broken. That’s the key, the answer to the puzzle—the duke must marry for love. Promise me you won’t marry him until he admits that he loves you.”
Clearly the woman was a bit unhinged. The best thing—the kindest thing—to do would be to humor her.
“Very well, Mrs. Cullen. I promise not to marry the duke until he says he loves me.”
Chapter Fifteen
June 20, 1617—Marcus has gone up to London with his mother again, and Rosaline and Maria are snickering. I hate it. They make certain I hear them say he will not come back. But he will. Soon. And then we’ll be together. I don’t need anyone else but him.
—from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
Cat stood at the front of St. Valentine’s, listening to the organ fill the stone church with music. An odd melancholy washed over her. She’d spent so many hours here, playing with her sisters in the pews while Mama worked on the altar flowers, running up and down the steps to the pulpit, watching Papa preach his sermons.
She smiled. And hiding from the first Duke of Hart’s tomb monument. It had taken Papa a long time to puzzle out why she refused to go anywhere near that part of the church. Finally he’d realized what the problem was and had explained that the duke and duchess lying side by side, hands folded in prayer, were only marble, that their actual bodies were enclosed in the large stone box underneath.
She glanced down at the floor. The second duke was here, too, under the middle aisle, but the rest were stowed away in the castle’s chapel. Cursed men couldn’t be buried in St. Valentine’s, though that was never said outright, of course. One didn’t insult the man who held one’s living.
Had Marcus seen his ancestors’ resting places? They hadn’t toured the church the day he’d posted the Spinster House notice.
She started to turn to see if he—
No. I cannot look at him.
His presence was an invisible force pulling her eyes his way, but she had to resist it. The more sensible villagers had stopped speculating about them, even after Mrs. Greeley had seen him go inside the Spinster House. She didn’t want to start the gossip up again.
So she’d been avoiding him. It had taken some doing—Marcus had seemed determined to talk to her—but she’d managed it for the few days since his mother’s visit.
She swallowed a nervous giggle. Mama had been quite surprised by her willingness to attend to so many of the last-minute wedding details. And then yesterday the duke’s friends had returned to Loves Bridge, and they had kept him busy. Tomorrow—or perhaps today—he’d go back to London for good and the problem would be over.
Her heart felt like a rock in her chest.
Could his mother be correct? Was there hope that he loved her and the curse could be broken?
No. Perhaps if he didn’t feel that he’d compromised her, they could find a way to be . . . friends, at least, but now she could never tell if it was love or guilt or, er, lust that was behind his offer.
She heard a muffled cough, a baby babble. The church was full now. Everyone had come to celebrate Mary and Theo’s wedding.
She looked at the couple standing next to her. Mary was so beautiful, so radiantly happy. Theo, earnest and sweet and nervous in his best clothes, drummed his fingers against his leg. And Papa stood before them, cloaked in the vestments of his office.
She stood precisely where she’d stood when Tory and Ruth had married. Likely she’d stand in the same spot when Pru’s and Sybbie’s turns came. Sister after sister, starting their own families while she—
She lifted her chin. While she lived happily ever after in the Spinster House. She had no desire to wed.
Liar.
Nonsense. She wanted to write. She wanted privacy. She wanted quiet.
She forced herself to concentrate on the music instead of her thoughts. The Marquess of Haywood was an accomplished musician, as good as or perhaps better than Mr. Wattles, the new Duke of Benton. And he’d been very accommodating. He hadn’t objected at all when Papa had asked if he might play the organ in church as well as the pianoforte in the hall later. Papa loved to include music in his services. He said it brought people out of their everyday concerns so they could feel the presence of the Lord.
Unfortunately today she was more aware of the presence of a different sort of lord. The duke was sitting in his family’s pew next to his other London friend, Lord Evans. She’d observed him out of the corner of her eye when she’d come in. He was devastatingly handsome, dressed formally in his dark coat and white cravat.
Had he admired her green dress? It was one of her favorites. Mama said it matched her eyes—
Silly! It didn’t matter what the duke thought about her dress. He was going back to London and would hopefully have a long life before he had to marry . . . someone else.
Oh, God.
Mary says I should hear what Marcus wishes to tell me. Perhaps I—
No. She couldn’t listen to the duke. If she did, she might allow herself to be persuaded.
But if Marcus’s mother is correct, our marriage might break the curse.
But Mrs. Cullen had admitted she wasn’t certain that Ma
rcus loved her. He’d offered for her out of duty. Or worse, out of some odd compulsion.
Or some not-so-odd compulsion—lust.
Some alarmingly lustful feeling snaked through her at that thought.
I do not want to be a widow before I’m a mother.
But what if Marcus does love me? Then—
Oh, drat. Her thoughts kept chasing themselves like a dog after its tail.
Papa had closed his prayer book. The wedding must be over. Mary was now Mrs. Theodore Dunly.
By the time Cat signed the parish register and made it over to the hall, the party was well under way. Lord Haywood was as skilled on the pianoforte as the organ and was playing a jig accompanied by Mr. Linden on the fiddle. Some of the adults and most of the children, including Pru and Sybbie and the twins, were dancing—well, in the children’s case, jumping and spinning would be a more accurate description.
“We’ll be celebrating your wedding next, Cat,” Anne said, coming up with Jane.
“We will not.” She glared at Anne. “And I do not appreciate your spreading tales, Miss Davenport.”
But if Anne hadn’t started the rumor, Marcus would not have come to the Spinster House and kissed me.
Something fluttered low in her belly. She was certain that kiss had been a mistake, but it was not one she entirely regretted.
Anne flushed. “I only said I’d seen you go into the trysting bushes with the duke. I didn’t say anything about what you might have been doing there. Other people added that to the story.”
Of course they had.
“You would have done the same if you were in our position, Cat,” Jane said. “You know you’d go to almost any lengths to get the Spinster House.”
Well, yes, that was probably true. She could understand the desperation Anne and Jane must be feeling.
Jane’s brows slanted down. “And what do you mean yours won’t be the next wedding? The duke offered for you, didn’t he?”
How did they know that?
Likely, Mama had let something slip. She hadn’t been especially happy when Cat told her she would not be the next Duchess of Hart.
“Yes, the duke asked, but I declined.”
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