“So you aren’t going to marry someone else immediately like the third duke did?” She tried to laugh. She’d meant it as a joke, but it had come out more like a wail.
“Of course not.” His frown deepened. “Though I will have to marry eventually.”
He would. He still needed an heir. And when that happened—
Oh, God. She would die.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you that I came across the third duke’s diary,” he said, “hidden in a desk’s secret compartment. If his scribblings are to be believed, he did love Isabelle and planned to defy his mother to marry her.”
Plans were one things. Actions were something else entirely.
“But he didn’t marry her.”
“No. I don’t know why.” Marcus shook his head. “I think he didn’t know she was increasing. There’s no mention of it in his diary, and, from reading the entries, I’d say he was the sort to have written about it in embarrassing detail.” He grimaced. “He seems to have worn his heart on his sleeve.”
Something this duke clearly did not approve of.
“However, I do not have to worry about that, do I? You will tell me if you are bearing my child.”
His gaze held hers so she couldn’t look away. The part of her that had been most involved in their recent encounter suddenly felt heavy and soft. Did she hope she was carrying his child? How very foolish!
“I said I would, and I keep my word.”
He studied her for another heartbeat, and then nodded as if he believed her. He pulled out his watch and frowned. “I’ve been away from the party long enough—maybe too long. I have to go.”
“You’re really leaving for London in the m-morning?” Drat. Her voice had wavered again.
“Yes”—his brows rose hopefully—“unless you’ve changed your mind about marrying me?”
She couldn’t trust her voice, so she just shook her head.
“Then there’s not much more to be said, is there?” He started for the door.
He’s going to leave without holding or kissing me again.
Panic clawed at her throat, but stubborn determination kept her rooted where she stood. “Wh-when will you be back?”
He paused, but didn’t turn to look at her. “I won’t be, unless you send word that you’re with child.”
His voice was calm, but when she looked more closely—which was hard to do with the silly tears trying to force their way out of her eyes—she saw his fingers were curled into tight fists.
He did look back then. “Or if you write to tell me you’ve changed your mind about wedding me.”
She shook her head again. She couldn’t do that.
He nodded. “Very well. As I said, I’m hopeful that by leaving I’ll stop any further speculation about our connection, but I can’t guarantee it. If things become unbearable, let me know.”
He didn’t ask her to swear it, which was good because she wouldn’t have done so. She couldn’t justify keeping his child from him, but her reputation was her own affair.
He looked at the bed, and she tried to memorize the line of his brow, the sweep of his lashes, the angle of his chin. This was likely the last time she would ever see him.
She bit her lip hard. She would not cry anymore.
And then he looked at her. She thought he was about to say something, but instead his jaw hardened. “Good-bye, Catherine.”
She nodded to acknowledge she’d heard him. If she tried to speak, she would start crying. Or she might throw herself at his feet and beg him not to leave, and she had too much pride for that.
He hesitated, clearly waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he bowed slightly and left. She listened to his steps echo down the stairs and then heard the back door open and close.
She took a quick step to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse of him before he was hidden by the overgrown vegetation.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
She’d never see him again.
She stumbled to the bed and sat down heavily as her legs gave out.
The room felt so empty. She felt empty. She’d always thought it silly when people talked about hearts breaking, but now she knew it was true. Hearts did break, and the pain was too intense for tears.
“Merrow.”
“Oh, Poppy. I didn’t see you come in.”
Poppy leapt up onto the bed and butted her head against Cat’s hand. This was odd. Poppy tolerated her with moderately good grace and would allow herself to be petted occasionally, but she’d never sought Cat out.
“Did you realize I needed company, Poppy?”
Poppy blinked at her and then butted her hand again, admitting nothing.
It didn’t matter. A calm, quiet, restful companion was exactly what Cat needed at the moment.
She sat on the bed in her shift, stroking Poppy and staring out the window.
How could he not have pulled out in time? He’d never made that mistake before, even as a green boy. He took great pride in his control.
Except just now, at the most important moment, his bloody wonderful control had failed him.
Marcus made his way through the tangled garden and crossed the road toward the church. Sounds of conversation, laughter, and music drifted down from the hall’s open windows. The party was still going on, but he wasn’t quite ready to rejoin it. He turned toward the graveyard instead.
What the hell am I going to do?
What he’d told Catherine. He’d go back to Town in the morning and try to forget this interlude had ever occurred.
He snorted. And he’d go dancing with fairies on the Thames as well. There weren’t enough light-skirts or brandy casks in all of London—no, in all of England—to make him forget Catherine.
I don’t want to forget. It was perfect . . . all but my failure to pull out.
All right, that had been perfect, too. Emptying his seed in Catherine’s warm, welcoming body had been so much better than pumping into the cold air, spending himself on the sheets. If he had the luxury of living a normal life, he’d even hope that they’d made a child together.
But I don’t have that luxury.
Perhaps he should go to the Lake District instead of London, even if Nate and Alex decided against the trip. Walking miles and miles with only sheep for company—and perhaps Nate and Alex—would put this sorry situation in perspective.
But then if Catherine does write to tell me she is—
That is, if Catherine should write, it might take weeks for her letter to find him. That would be disastrous.
A red squirrel darted across his path and scrambled up the wide trunk of an old oak.
Blast it, he should have had her promise to send him word the moment she discovered she wasn’t pregnant as well. Now if he didn’t hear from her, it might just mean she’d decided to defy him and carry the child without his knowledge.
I can tell Dunly to let me know—
No. What could he say to Dunly without violating Catherine’s privacy? Send word if your sister-in-law becomes noticeably stout?
Of course not.
He wandered among the gravestones. How long would it be before Catherine knew whether or not she was increasing? A woman generally had her courses once a month, but some had them less frequently. He could be waiting on tenterhooks for a damnably long time.
Zeus! He slammed his fist down on one of the headstones. How could I have lost control that way? I wagered my life for a moment of pleasure.
He was only thirty. He should have years and years ahead of him before he had to marry. But if Catherine had conceived, he couldn’t let her bear the child out of wedlock. The entire village would shun her. And what if the child was a boy? Then the babe would become the next Duke of Hart, but only if he and Catherine were married when the infant was born.
And then the poor little mite would be cursed, too. Perhaps it would be better to let him be born a bastard.
No. Bastardy was never a gift.
He too
k a deep, calming breath. He was getting ahead of himself. With luck, Catherine had not conceived. The interlude in her bedchamber would just become a pleasant memory.
The thought was exceedingly depressing.
And if she wasn’t carrying his child, he’d never see her again. How could he bear that?
He leaned against the headstone. Perhaps he didn’t have to. Emmett had said he should spend more time at Loves Castle. He’d enjoyed becoming involved in the management of the place and getting to know his tenants. If he was at the castle, it would be natural to come into the village from time to time. He could even look in at the Spinster House to be sure all was in order and to see how Catherine went on....
No. Whom was he fooling? If he saw Catherine, he would want to bed her. He’d just proven how weak his control was where she was concerned. If they’d been lucky enough to escape pregnancy this time, he couldn’t tempt fate by having relations with her again, even though his damn, mindless cock was insisting vehemently that one time with Catherine was not enough.
It isn’t, but it’s all I’m going to get.
Unless she had conceived. Then he’d have months to live with her and love her and watch her grow round and heavy with their child.
Months, not years. And he’d never see the baby, would he? Unless he was exceedingly lucky and Catherine gave him a daughter. It had happened once before. It could happen again....
No. I can’t hope for such luck. And I’ll still need a son to carry on the title.
He straightened. He was getting nowhere with this. He might as well go inside, even though the last thing he wanted was to be around people.
He glanced down at the gravestone he’d been leaning against and read the name on it. Of course. Isabelle Dorring. Blast! He’d like to push the damn thing over. It was a lie anyway. Isabelle wasn’t buried here.
If only the curse was as much of a lie.
When he entered the hall a few minutes later, the Misses Boltwood pounced on him.
“You’ve been gone quite a while, duke,” Miss Cordelia said, waggling her brows.
Miss Gertrude giggled. “One hour and fourteen minutes.” Her brows joined her sister’s in jumping up and down. “We timed you.”
“You must have had quite a conversation with Miss Hutting.” Miss Cordelia nudged her sister and they giggled harder.
“Yes. An exchange of many pleasantries.”
“For an hour and fourteen minutes.”
“You must have had a lot to talk about.”
Good God, the ladies had clearly had a few too many glasses of punch. He looked around the room. Would no one come to his aid?
Apparently not. Nate was still playing the pianoforte. He managed to catch Alex’s eye, but the scurvy fellow just smiled and continued his conversation with Miss Wilkinson.
Well, Alex could plan to walk back to the castle, then.
“I think the dear vicar will be celebrating another wedding soon, don’t you, Gertrude?”
“And maybe a christening nine months later—oh.”
The ladies suddenly realized they had strayed into hazardous territory.
“No one believes in that silly old curse,” Miss Cordelia said.
Miss Gertrude nodded vigorously. “This is 1817, after all. The previous dukes’ deaths were just unfortunate coincidences.”
Five unfortunate “coincidences”—every single duke for the last two hundred years.
He’d had practice hiding his emotions. Now he smiled at the women. “Actually, I was visiting Isabelle Dorring’s grave. Or, I suppose I should say, her gravestone.”
Their jaws dropped in unison.
“Why would you do something daft like that?” Cordelia managed to ask.
Why indeed? “No reason. I was just wandering through the graveyard and happened to stop there.”
The ladies were still gawping at him. He couldn’t fault them. It was a rather preposterous tale, but he was not about to tell them where he’d been before his stroll through the churchyard.
“Good God, she turned you down.” Cordelia looked at her sister. “Can you believe it, Gertrude? Cat turned him down! What is the matter with that girl?”
“She has feathers for brains, that’s what’s the matter,” Gertrude said. “Or rocks. I could understand why she would shy away from Harold Barker—who would want to get buckled to that man?—but to turn up her nose at this!” She gestured at Marcus. “She must be blind as well as doltish.”
He did not wish to confirm their suspicions, but he couldn’t stand silent and listen to them malign Catherine.
“Miss Hutting is living in the Spinster House, ladies. I believe that makes it quite clear that she is perfectly content with her unmarried state.”
Both elderly ladies rolled their eyes.
“Nonsense!” Cordelia said. “No female in her right mind would choose a life of virginity over a night in your bed, duke.”
“With or without a marriage proposal,” Gertrude added.
Cordelia snorted. “Except for Cat. I’m sure she’d want a ring on her finger first. She is the vicar’s daughter.”
Dear God, don’t let me look as guilty as I feel.
“And as stiff and proper as a nun.”
She is not!
Cordelia nodded. “Stiffer. Likely cold, too.”
If they only knew . . . which they will if Catherine has conceived, blast it.
“But if anyone can warm her up,” Gertrude said, “you can, duke.” She winked at him. “I’m sure you know your way around a bed.”
Cordelia sighed. “Yes, indeed. If only I was a few years younger.”
Good God! A few years? The woman must have at least sixty years in her dish, if not seventy. And she and her sister were both spinsters themselves.
Er, best not wade into those waters.
“Yes, well, it’s been very pleasant chatting, but I must go speak to my friends, Lord Haywood and Lord Evans. I wish to get an early start tomorrow.”
“Early start?” Gertrude looked at her sister and then back at him. “You aren’t leaving us, are you, duke?”
“Sadly, I am. I find I must return to Town.”
The two elderly sisters stared at him in silence.
Then Cordelia put her hand on his sleeve and shook his arm slightly. “Don’t give up, duke. Cat will come around. You’ll see. You just need to be persistent.”
If only it was that simple.
He gently freed his arm. “Madam, I know you mean well, but I must ask you not to pursue this topic any further.”
“Do you want us to speak to her for you?” Gertrude asked.
“No!” That came out a bit too forcefully. He made himself smile. “No, thank you. It is very kind of you to offer, but . . . no. Now I really must take my leave.”
“When will you be back?” Gertrude asked.
Cordelia reached for his arm again, but he was able to avoid her without being too obvious about it . . . he hoped. At least it didn’t stop her from speaking.
“Perhaps you should stay away for a week or two, duke. Give Cat time to miss you. Then she’ll fall into your arms the moment you return.”
“Yes. Well, I doubt that I will be returning. Good afternoon, ladies.” He bowed and turned—
And almost tripped over the twins. They were staring at him, large eyes dark in their pale faces. Mikey—and even Tom—looked to be on the verge of tears.
“You can’t leave, dook,” Mikey said, throwing himself at Marcus and wrapping his arms around his legs.
Tom raised his chin and used his sleeve to wipe away his tears. “You’re supposed to m-marry Cat.”
Oh, blast.
Chapter Eighteen
July 25, 1617—Dear God! My courses are now two weeks late, and my stomach is severely unsettled. The smell and even the look of some foods have me running for the chamber pot. I must be increasing. But what am I to do? I wish Marcus was here to hold me, but he is still away at his house party. I must write to him. He wi
ll marry me and all will be well.
—from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
Something brushed across Cat’s cheek.
“Mmpft.” She swatted at it and turned over in bed, settling back to sleep. She’d been in the middle of a wonderful dream. Marcus had just been about to—
The thing swatted back, hitting her nose this time.
“Go away, Poppy. I’m sleeping.” Ever since that afternoon with Marcus, Poppy had taken to inviting herself into Cat’s bed. It was very odd. Had her scent changed or something?
She blushed, digging deeper into the covers. If something was different about her, fortunately, only Poppy seemed to have noticed.
“Merrow.” Poppy rubbed her face against Cat’s.
“It’s too early. See, the sun isn’t even up.” Cat finally opened her eyes. Her room was actually quite bright. Too bright.
She sat up abruptly, sending Poppy leaping to the floor. “Good God, what time is it?” She lunged for her watch on the bedside table. “Nine o’clock! I’ve never slept this late.”
Except she’d been sleeping this late rather often recently. She pushed her hair out of her face. What was the matter with her? She was always tired now, and her breasts were tender and achy—
Aching for Marcus’s touch.
She buried her face in her hands. She had to forget him. She wasn’t going to be some silly Miss, languishing for her lover. Marcus wasn’t her lover. They had only done . . . that once.
She closed her eyes as her body remembered in throbbing detail exactly what they’d done. Marcus had been gone three weeks—three long weeks—but she recalled exactly how he had touched her as if it had happened yesterday.
Lud, it had been wonderful. She’d had no idea she could feel such things. She wanted more—
But she couldn’t have more. And in any event, her breasts were really too sensitive to be touched.
She climbed reluctantly out of bed. If she hadn’t already missed more than one fair planning meeting, she might have stayed under the covers. But she’d promised Jane and Anne she’d be there today.
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