What to Do with a Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

  Ouch! She bumped her breast with her arm as she pulled on her shift. She put her stays on more carefully and then her dress. Odd. Her bodice felt a bit tight. She hadn’t thought she’d been putting on weight. Just the opposite. Even the smell of certain foods made her stomach rebel.

  She must be sickening. Or perhaps her monthly courses were coming on. It was about time for them to make their appearance. She frowned. When had she had them last? She should pay more attention—

  Oh.

  Oh, God!

  She dove for the chamber pot and emptied the contents of her stomach into it. Eew.

  She sat back on her heels and pressed her fingers to her forehead. She couldn’t be increasing. A woman didn’t conceive the first—and only—time she had sexual congress with a man.

  Though Marcus had seemed to think it was possible. He had told her to write him.

  She eyed the chamber pot again as her stomach twisted.

  Nonsense! She was just late, that was all. Her body had been shocked and disordered by the, er, experience with Marcus. Things were sure to right themselves in a few days.

  Hopefully.

  She opened the window and dumped the chamber pot’s disgusting contents over the sill. Then she hurried down the stairs. Unfortunately, there was no time for tea, but she could get a cup and a bit of bread at the inn.

  “Cat!” She looked over to see Jane and Anne coming toward her on the walk.

  She fell into step with them. “Why aren’t you already at the inn, Anne? Didn’t you ride there directly?” Poor Anne. Her father had just remarried and moved his new wife and her sons into Davenport Hall.

  “I did, but when I arrived and didn’t see you or Jane—and did see the Misses Boltwood—I decided to go for a walk. I did not wish to be the only unmarried target for the ladies’ dubious advice.”

  Anne hadn’t stopped by the Spinster House on her way to Jane’s. That hurt.

  No, it was just as well. If Anne had come by, she would have found Cat in bed or, worse, hanging over the chamber pot. “What kept you, Jane?”

  “Randolph needed me to find a paper for him.” Jane snorted. “Of course it was exactly where I’d told him it was. He just couldn’t manage to look under the book he’d put on top of it.”

  “How annoying.” Cat waited for a self-satisfied feeling to bubble up at the thought of her own housing good fortune, but it didn’t come. Ever since she’d made the mistake of letting Marcus into her bed, her contentment with the Spinster House had ebbed.

  All right, she hadn’t been as content as she’d expected even before then. Life in the Spinster House was a little too quiet and a bit lonely. But she was still adjusting. Things would get better soon. The situation with Marcus had . . . confused her.

  Once I get used to his absence, I’ll be fine.

  They were walking past the lending library now. No one had taken it in hand since Miss Franklin left. Perhaps that was something she could do to pass the time when she wasn’t writing.

  “Why are you late, Cat?” Anne asked.

  Good God, how did Anne know her courses were—

  Oh. She was talking about being late for the meeting. “I overslept.”

  “No little brothers or sisters to wake you up, eh?” Jane said.

  Of course! That must be why she was sleeping so much. “Precisely. And I don’t have to share a bed”—drat, she wasn’t blushing was she?—“with Mary any longer.”

  “You wouldn’t have to do that now that Mary’s wed.” Jane raised her brows. “Which I hope you’ll be soon. The thought that I’ll be able to move into the Spinster House—”

  “You’ll be able to move in?” Anne scowled at Jane. “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Definitely not!” What was the matter with Jane? “Why in the world do you think I’ll be getting married?”

  I’ll have to marry if I’m increasing.

  No, I can’t. The curse—

  “Have you heard from the duke recently?” Jane exchanged a significant—and very annoying—look with Anne.

  Cat’s stomach heaved. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, but fortunately, it was a false alarm. “Of course not.” She swallowed. “There’s no reason for the Duke of Hart to write to me.”

  “But when is he returning?” Anne asked.

  “Never. That’s what Mama said he told Thomas and Michael, and I don’t believe he would lie to children.” The twins had been heartbroken.

  Anne frowned. “I thought he told them he didn’t know, but he was afraid it might not be for a long time.”

  “That’s the same thing. He was just trying to soften the blow for the boys, but they’d heard what he’d said to the Misses Boltwood.” Mikey had cried inconsolably that night, Mama had told her, though that might also have been due to Mary’s leaving. But even Tom had been teary-eyed.

  Oh, lud, Jane and Anne were looking at each other with that annoyingly knowing expression again.

  “What is it?”

  “I was talking to Lord Evans at Mary’s wedding,” Jane said. “He thought the duke was very, er, interested in you.”

  Which he had been. Extremely interested. He’d explored every interesting inch of her, some of which she’d never explored herself.

  “His Grace is very kind. He takes an interest in everyone.”

  Jane rolled her eyes.

  “That’s not the sort of interest Lord Evans meant,” Anne said, “and you know it. He meant a matrimonial interest.”

  If I’m increasing, Marcus will insist we marry despite the curse.

  “We think the duke cares for you, Cat,” Jane said.

  Did Marcus care for her or was what had happened between them merely a case of a worldly duke taking what a silly country spinster was offering? She hadn’t thought so at the time, but she’d been so overwhelmed by all the new sensations, she hadn’t been thinking at all. He could have been laughing up his sleeve at her.

  With all his experience, he’d probably found what they’d done in her bed sadly flat.

  Oh, God, she didn’t know what to think. As more time passed, her recollection of what Marcus had said and how he had looked dimmed. The only thing that hadn’t faded was her body’s desire to do what they had done again.

  And again.

  No, that wasn’t true. What she felt in her heart hadn’t faded either.

  “Have you forgotten about Isabelle’s curse? Marriage for the duke is a death sentence. He has no desire to take up permanent residence in the churchyard anytime soon.”

  But if I’m increasing . . .

  Oh, Lord, if I give birth to a bastard, the scandal will be enormous. Papa is the vicar, for God’s sake.

  “But if the duke marries you for love,” Anne said, “won’t that break the curse?”

  But Marcus hadn’t said anything about love. He’d offered because he’d spilled his seed in her.

  “I don’t know why we’re having this ridiculous conversation. I’m a confirmed spinster. The duke knows that. He’s the one who gave me the keys to the Spinster House.”

  They finally reached Cupid’s Inn.

  “You’re a spinster now,” Jane said, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll be a spinster forever. Look at Miss Franklin.”

  Yes, Miss Franklin.

  “Miss Franklin was an aberration.” Cat pulled open the inn door. “Mama says that as far as she can remember, no other spinster has ever wed.” Which is exactly what she would do—remain a spinster forever. If she couldn’t have Marcus—and she couldn’t—then she wouldn’t have anyone.

  And if I am increasing?

  Oh, God. Oh, God. I can’t be.

  Cat would be the first to admit she wasn’t paying much attention during the fair planning meeting. She sipped her tea and willed her courses to start.

  “Pining for your duke, are you?” Miss Gertrude said when Cat failed to respond to something she’d asked.

  It was going to be hell if every time her attention wandered, someone was going to thro
w Marcus’s title in her face.

  “Which duke?”

  Every single woman in the room rolled her eyes then, and baby Malcolm farted, though that, of course, had not been intentional.

  “Which duke?” Miss Cordelia said. “Let’s see, how many dukes have wandered into Loves Bridge in the last few years?”

  “The Duke of Benton, for one,” Cat said.

  “Not the Duke of Benton.” Miss Cordelia snorted. “The Duke of Hart, of course. The boy who was sniffing around your skirts just a few weeks ago.”

  “Likely doing more than sniffing,” Miss Gertrude said, nudging her sister.

  “He did seem very interested in you, Cat,” Viola Latham said, having examined Malcolm’s bottom and confirmed that noise was the only thing that had emanated from that region. “We all remarked on it.”

  Helena Simmons nodded. “Even my husband mentioned it, and he never notices anything of that nature.” She snorted. “If he can’t eat it or drink it or swive it, he doesn’t see it.”

  Helena and her husband did not have a happy union.

  “So when is the duke returning to Loves Bridge?” Miss Cordelia asked. “And when will there be a wedding?”

  Cat’s stomach heaved, but she swallowed it down. “He’s not coming back, and there won’t be a wedding.”

  “Oh, there’ll be a wedding,” Miss Gertrude said, waggling her brows. “He’s like his father. He knows he has to marry you to have you, and any fool can tell he wants to have you.” Her brows jumped even more. “Desperately.”

  Oh, God, if I am increasing, everyone will know exactly what I did with the duke.

  She took a deep breath.

  My courses will come today or tomorrow. They have to.

  “Remember the curse,” she said. Why didn’t anyone else remind people of that damned curse? “The duke must put off marriage as long as he can.”

  Miss Cordelia flicked her fingers at her. “It will take more than a silly curse to keep that boy from between your legs.”

  She really was going to cast up her accounts—perhaps she could aim for the Misses Boltwood’s shoes.

  “Cordelia,” Viola said, “remember Cat is a virgin as are Jane and Anne”—her brows rose—“and you and your sister, I presume.”

  Cordelia blushed slightly and shrugged. “Yes, yes. But we don’t have any patience with roundaboutation, do we, Gertrude?”

  “No, indeed.” Gertrude snorted. “Modern mealy-mouthed ways. In our day we got right to the point, and the point is, Cat, that the duke is as lusty as they come. Lud, his pantaloons were—”

  “I really must be going.” She did not want to hear what Miss Gertrude thought about Marcus’s pantaloons. “I find I’m not feeling quite the thing.”

  “I know just what will cure you,” Miss Cordelia said. “A nice tumble between—”

  Cat was out the door before the woman could finish her sentence.

  Oh, Lord, how was she going to survive the Boltwood sisters?

  She started walking toward the Spinster House. As the proverb said, time was a great healer. Each day without Marcus was a day closer to forgetting him.

  No, she’d never forget him, but in time he’d fade to a pleasant memory. Getting her courses would help, too. She was often emotional around the time they arrived. And surely the Boltwood sisters would stop teasing her when the weeks went by and Marcus stayed in London.

  “Cat!”

  She looked up to see her sister Mary waving and walking toward her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as Mary came up. Mary and Theo had been back from their honeymoon for over a week, but Theo’s house was on the castle grounds, so Mary didn’t come into the village that often. “You look very happy. Marriage must agree with you.”

  The pain in her chest was nausea, not jealousy.

  “It does.” Mary gave a little skip. “I came to see Mama. Oh, Cat, I think I have the most wonderful news, but I need to have Mama confirm my suspicions.”

  “Really?” Mary looked as if she would burst if she didn’t unburden herself immediately. “What is it?”

  Mary blushed. “I shouldn’t tell you. I forgot. You aren’t married.”

  She would not push her sister into that very tempting thorn-bush they were just passing. “I don’t see what being married has to say to anything.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’re still a virgin.”

  She should just continue on to the Spinster House in her virginal ignorance, except she wasn’t still a virgin, and she was very much afraid she might not be able to hide that fact much longer. “I’m not an idiot, however.”

  Mary could never keep a thing to herself for long. “No, of course you aren’t.” She gave another little skip and grabbed Cat’s arm. “I think I may be increasing!”

  Cat’s stomach plummeted. “But it’s too early, isn’t it? You’ve been married just a few weeks.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes, I thought it was too soon, too, but Mama warned me it was possible to conceive quickly, especially when one is young.”

  At least I’m not young.

  “Mama said she’s quite certain you were started on her wedding night.”

  That was rather too much information.

  “So when I noticed all the signs, I thought perhaps the same thing had happened to me.”

  “Er, what signs?”

  Mary was too excited to remember she was talking to a supposed virgin. “Well, the first thing, of course, is missing your monthly courses. Mine are almost a week late.”

  “Ah.” Surely a week was not so very late?

  “And then there’s the tiredness, the sore breasts, the nausea, the sensitivity to smells, that sort of thing.” Mary skipped again and clapped her hands. “Oh, won’t it be wonderful if I really am enceinte?”

  “Yes.” Oh, God; oh, God; oh, God. “It would be wonderful.” I’m going to vomit. “Give Mama my best.”

  Cat started to walk faster. She needed to get to the Spinster House before she disgraced herself.

  “Aren’t you coming with me to the vicarage?”

  “No.” Cat swallowed and managed a smile. “You’ll want to talk to Mama alone, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. She’ll be so happy.” Mary waved and headed across the green.

  Cat swallowed again and almost ran past the lending library and up the walk to the Spinster House. She’d never make it inside, but she could manage—just—to make it to the garden where she had some privacy to empty her stomach over an unsuspecting, overgrown, nondescript bush.

  She had a letter she needed to write to the Duke of Hart.

  Marcus danced in Lord Easthaven’s ballroom with Lady, er . . . what was the girl’s name? Beatrice? Belinda? Something that began with a “b.”

  Maybe.

  Better be cautious and not refer to her by name at all. Not that the girl would correct him. She was such a toadeater, she’d likely change her name to whatever he called her.

  “Are you enjoying the ball?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Grace.” She stared up at him with a revoltingly worshipful gaze.

  He’d asked her to stand up with him because of her hair. It was reddish gold like Catherine’s. When he’d seen her from behind, he’d thought for a moment she was Catherine, and he’d been so blasted happy, his bloody heart had jumped.

  Well, his heart and another organ.

  And then he’d seen her face. She was one of the Earl of Ambleton’s daughters. Pretty enough, but she wasn’t Catherine.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” he said. Ha! Only if you liked damp and drizzle.

  “Oh, yes, Your Grace.”

  Good God, did the woman have a single original thought in her head? Catherine would have laughed at him and told him—

  He could not think about Catherine.

  “Are you planning to remove to the country for the summer?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Grace.”

  He had thought he might be required to go to Loves B
ridge, but apparently there was no need of that. It had been three weeks, and he hadn’t heard from Catherine. She must know by now that she was not increasing.

  He should be happy. Overjoyed. Delighted. Ecstatic.

  He felt distinctly blue-deviled.

  He’d checked the post every day. Every bloody day he’d waited with dread for Finch to present him with his correspondence, and every day he’d felt disappointed instead of elated when he’d flipped through the pile of cards and letters to find there was none from Catherine.

  It was just the uncertainty. That was all. Now that he knew his . . . mistake hadn’t had consequences, he could feel relief.

  Eventually.

  It would take time, but he’d started the process. Today he’d made a point of being away from home so he wouldn’t spend every moment waiting for the letter that wasn’t coming. He needed to keep busy. After a few weeks—or months—this blasted longing would fade.

  “Your Grace?”

  He looked back down at the girl. Damnation. She must have said something other than “oh, yes.”

  “I’m sorry. My attention wandered.”

  She blushed—prettily, he supposed. “I was merely wondering if you were going to the country, too.”

  “Ah. No.” He could go to one of his other estates, of course. He probably should go. But he had no desire to be anywhere but in Loves Bridge, so he would stay in London. There was more to distract him here.

  Except none of it was working. Riding in Hyde Park, attending the theater, strolling through the museums—wherever he went, Catherine was there in his thoughts. He wanted to show her all of London and see her reaction. He would even escort her to a literary salon or two if she wanted. He wasn’t part of that set, but no one would turn away the Duke of Hart—

  But he wasn’t going to see Catherine again.

  Lady Whatever-her-name-was smiled at him. He smiled back.

  That had been the wrong thing to do. Her eyes lit up.

  “Then you’ll come? Papa will be so delighted.”

  “Er, come?”

  “To our country estate.” The girl actually frowned. That was progress. “I just invited you.”