“Ah, yes.” While he would never be a success on the stage, he had perfected a few acting skills. He didn’t usually bother to employ them, relying instead on a pointed set-down, but he was more at fault here than his companion. “I would enjoy—” He paused and then let his shoulders droop slightly while he shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I’ve just remembered. I must stay in Town.”
The girl’s frown deepened to a scowl. “Why?”
Perhaps she did merit a set-down. “Private business.” He allowed his lips to curl slightly into an expression that was half smile, half sneer. “I’m certain you understand.”
Apparently she didn’t. She opened her mouth to protest again, but fortunately the dance ended.
“I’ll just return you to your chaperone, shall I?” He put her hand on his arm and started to tow her across the room toward Lady Ambleton.
“I thought we might stroll in the gardens.” The girl dug in her heels, slowing their progress. “It’s such a lovely evening, Your Grace.”
Now he remembered. Her father was said to have made some poor investments and was looking to refill the family coffers. Well, it wasn’t going to be with his coins.
“It’s raining.”
She batted her eyes at him. “We can take shelter under a tree.” She leaned forward slightly, and he suddenly realized the neck of her dress was quite low. He had an excellent view of her breasts.
He might just as well be viewing a pair of apples. No, plums. Small plums.
“I’m sure you’ll keep me dry, Your Grace.”
“Well, you’re wrong there.” Idiot! Hadn’t he learned anything from his mistake with Miss Rathbone? He could not let his attention wander. This wasn’t Loves Bridge; it was London. Women were hiding behind every bush and potted plant, hoping to trap him into marriage. “You will want to return to your mother before the next set so you can find a more amenable partner.”
“Don’t you mean amiable?” she said a bit waspishly, finally allowing him to guide her toward Lady Ambleton.
“That, too.”
Once he freed himself from Lady Annoying, he retreated to the refreshment room, which is where Alex and Nate found him.
“Enjoy your dance with Lady Barbara?” Alex asked while helping himself to a lobster patty.
At least he now knew the girl’s name. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Alex popped the entire patty into his mouth.
That would keep him quiet for a while. Unfortunately Nate’s mouth wasn’t full.
“Why did you come, Marcus? You’ve been glowering at everyone all night. More than one person has remarked on it to me.” Nate frowned. “Some have even noticed that your ill temper dates from your return to London. They’ve asked me what happened in Loves Bridge.”
“I hope you haven’t said anything.” Good God, he would not have Catherine’s name bandied about.
“Of course I haven’t. What would there be to say?” Nate frowned. “Nothing did happen in Loves Bridge, did it?” His frown deepened. “That’s what you told me.”
“Right. Nothing happened.” Blast. Now he’d got Nate worried. That was the last thing he needed—Nate going on and on about the bloody curse. He’d likely snap the poor man’s head off. And for no reason. Nothing at all had happened in Loves Bridge, as evidenced by the fact Catherine hadn’t written him.
Nate grinned. “Good. I’ll confess I was worried for a while, especially after you spent that time with Miss Hutting in the bushes and then disappeared after her sister’s wedding. But when you were willing to return to London, I realized my concern was groundless. And of course she’s not interested in marriage. She must be well settled into the Spinster House by now.”
“Yes, I’m sure she is.” He did not want to discuss Catherine. “I say, isn’t that Viscount Motton over by the window? I thought you said you needed a word with him.”
“I do. Where is he? Oh, yes, I see. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Gladly,” Marcus muttered as Nate headed across the room.
“You’re a lovesick dunderhead, you know.”
“W-what?” He snapped his head around. Alex had finished his lobster patty and was now helping himself to a glass of champagne.
“You heard me. You may have fooled Nate—he was busy playing the organ during the wedding and then the pianoforte afterward—but I saw how you looked at Miss Hutting. And I know the signs of infatuation.” He took a large swallow of champagne. “Too well.”
Oh, God. Alex never talked about the woman who’d jilted him, but Marcus knew he wasn’t completely over the experience yet. “I’m sorry about Lady Charlotte.”
Alex waved his concern away. “Go back to Loves Bridge and marry Miss Hutting, will you?”
If only it were that simple. “I can’t. You know about the curse.”
“I thought if you married for love, you’d break it.”
“Yes. But if it’s not love I feel for Catherine, I’ll likely die within the year.” He definitely lusted for Catherine. But did he love her? How the hell was he to tell those emotions apart?
“What does it matter? As far as I can tell you’re as close to dead now as you can be without being planted in the churchyard.”
God, that was damnably true.
Alex’s look was direct, yet not unsympathetic. “Would you rather have a few months of wedded bliss with Miss Hutting or a lifetime of misery knowing you weren’t brave enough to risk everything for what you wanted?”
Put that way. . . .
“I think I’ll go back to Hart House.”
Alex frowned. “Alone?”
“Yes.” Marcus laughed. “For God’s sake, don’t worry—and don’t get Nate worrying. I just think it’s best if I take my disagreeable self home”—he smiled—“and think about what you said. Tell Nate I’m tired, will you? And I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
Marcus left the refreshment room without attracting Nate’s attention, dodged a number of other acquaintances, and slipped out of Lord Easthaven’s town house. The streets were quiet, and the rain had thinned to a drizzle.
Did he love Catherine?
He certainly wanted her. She haunted his dreams and caused him to wake painfully hard.
He’d thought to slake his lust with one of the many accommodating London light-skirts, but when he’d arrived at his favorite brothel, he found he couldn’t take another woman to bed. His cock refused to play, dangling between his legs as if dead. He hadn’t stayed beyond five minutes and had likely ruined his reputation among the London Cyprians.
Bloody hell! He enjoyed a romp in bed as much as the next man, but now . . .
He kicked a loose stone and sent it clattering over the pavement.
Now something had changed. He’d changed. What he’d done with Catherine had been more than an enjoyable act of copulation. Minds and hearts had been involved.
It had been an act of love.
But did that mean he loved Catherine?
He crossed the street to Hart House, the glow from the gaslights making the puddles glitter and the cobblestones shine.
It didn’t matter. He might not know what love was, but Alex was right. He felt dead now. He’d rather have a handful of months sharing his days—and his bed—with Catherine than years and years of life without her.
He’d go to Loves Bridge and ask her to marry him.
He grinned and took the steps to his door two at a time. He’d leave in the morning. He’d like to leave now—and might consider it if the moon was full—but such bizarre behavior would shock poor Emmett and Dunly and the others at the castle and would set tongues to wagging. He didn’t want that. He hadn’t yet persuaded Catherine to have him.
Finch opened the door before Marcus could grasp the latch. Damnation, the butler must have been watching for him. Now what?
“I can let myself in, you know, Finch. No need to hover by the door.”
Finch frowned and tugged on his waistcoat. “I have put your correspondence in the study, Your Grace.”<
br />
Oh, right. The way he’d been waiting for the post every day, Finch must think he’d want to have that news immediately.
“Thank you. I’ll look at it in the morning. I’m off to bed now.”
Should he tell him he was leaving at dawn? No, better save that for Kimball. His valet was apt to get his nose out of joint if he thought Finch knew something before he did.
Finch cleared his throat. “I believe you would wish to read it tonight, Your Grace.”
He froze. “Oh?”
Finch nodded, not meeting his gaze. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
He started for the study, alarm coursing through his veins. Something was wrong.
Finch had left a lamp burning. He saw the post immediately. Most of it was off to the side, but one white rectangle lay by itself in the middle of the desk.
He walked slowly over to it and picked it up. It was from Loves Bridge. From the Spinster House, which could only mean one thing.
He broke the seal. The writing was neat, feminine. There was a splotch in the middle as if a tear had fallen on the ink.
Your Grace,
I am sorry to be required to inform you that I believe I am increasing.
Sincerely,
Miss Catherine Hutting
Chapter Nineteen
August 1, 1617—Marcus has married the duke’s daughter. Rosaline showed me the notice in the London paper. Oh, God, what am I to do?
—from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
She was sorry.
He let the letter slip from his fingers and flutter down to the desk.
She was sorry.
He’d been so focused on his own feelings, he’d forgotten about Catherine’s. She wasn’t like the other girls. She didn’t want to marry. She certainly didn’t care about becoming a duchess. She wanted to live alone in the Spinster House and write. This pregnancy would ruin all her plans.
No, it needn’t do that. Yes, she’d have to marry him, but he would hire nursemaids and governesses and tutors. All his properties were large. She could go off by herself to write whenever she wished. He would expect her to warm his bed from time to time for the few months he had with her before the curse sent him to the grave, but surely that wasn’t too much to ask? She’d proven herself passionate—
Oh, God, no. That wasn’t what he wanted. Even his randy cock wasn’t enthusiastic about the notion of Catherine being little more than a live-in mistress.
He dropped into the desk chair and rubbed his face. Did she care for him at all?
She’d never said so. She’d only said she wanted him.
But she’d let him into her bed. Surely she wouldn’t have done that if she hadn’t felt something for him besides lust. Catherine wasn’t a light-skirt. He’d been her first lover.
But that doesn’t mean she loves you.
Oh, Lord. I want her to love me. I want it far too much.
He surged back to his feet and started to pace in front of the fire.
Catherine did seem to care whether he died or not. Hadn’t she mentioned the blasted curse when she’d said she wouldn’t marry him?
Perfect. The curse that had been such an attraction for the grasping women who’d been past Duchesses of Hart was exactly what was keeping Catherine from accepting his offer.
He paused by the far wall. All right, he would absolve his mother of that sin. But the ladies who’d been vying to become his duchess certainly valued the fact that they could look forward to his early demise.
He turned to stride back the other way.
But caring whether he lived or died didn’t mean she loved him. She would likely feel that way about anyone, even the detestable Mr. Barker.
I saw the pain in her eyes when I left her. I swear she didn’t want me to leave.
But she hadn’t stopped him.
Likely it was his own emotions he’d imagined in her expression. Perhaps she’d only been appalled by her behavior, finally realizing the magnitude of what she’d done, how she’d put all her plans in jeopardy.
His gut clenched. Surely she didn’t feel the panic and despair Isabelle Dorring had felt?
No. She’d written to him as she’d said she would. She must know she could rely on him to help her.
He turned his back to the fire. And he would help her. He would marry her. It might not be what she wanted, but that was immaterial now. Neither of them had a choice any longer—they’d made their choice three weeks ago.
And she had made the choice. It hadn’t been rape. He’d offered to leave. He’d even warned her there was a risk of conception. Yes, he should have pulled out in time, but what was done was done. He hadn’t meant to impregnate her.
Now she was carrying his child, so she had to become his wife. He would not let his son or daughter be born a bastard.
He snatched Catherine’s letter off the desk and tossed it into the fire. No need to advertise the fact that they had anticipated their vows. People might wonder, but babies did sometimes come a few weeks early.
He headed for the stairs and his bedchamber. He needed to try to get some sleep. He intended to leave at first light. Tomorrow he would see Catherine. Zeus! He’d thought he’d never again have that pleasure, but now . . .
Now he was filled with an unsettling stew of anticipation and dread.
Cat was dreaming of Marcus. He was in her bedroom, and she was naked—
Something brushed over her cheek. She swatted at it, but Poppy was too fast. Cat’s hand passed through the air without touching anything.
The light sensation came again.
“Go away, Poppy.” She snuggled deeper into her bed. “I’m dreaming.”
“About me, I hope.”
She’d swear that was Marcus’s voice.
Her eyes flew open. Her room was still filled with shadows, but she could see Marcus’s face just above hers.
Was she dreaming? She reached out to cup his jaw.
His strong fingers wrapped around her hand and turned it, his lips skimmed her palm. The sensation of his mouth brushing over her skin sent expectation humming through her.
“Your cheek is rough.”
“I didn’t take the time to shave.”
She must be dreaming, and this Marcus must be a phantasm called up by her desire. It was too early for the real Marcus to be here. She’d just posted her letter yesterday afternoon.
But he felt very real.
“Is it true? Are you actually here?” she whispered.
“Yes, Catherine. I’m here.” His voice was deep and husky and warm—and there was a note of humor in it, too. And desire. Surely desire.
“Show me.”
“Show you?” He sounded hesitant.
“That you’re really, really here.” She pulled back the coverlet to make her invitation plainer. “Please.”
She knew she’d missed him, but she hadn’t realized how much until now. Her body was on fire, her breasts, the place between her legs, everywhere aching for him to do what they had done before. There was no danger now. She couldn’t become pregnant. She already was.
For a moment she thought he was going to refuse. She bit her lip. She wouldn’t beg, though the need surging through her urged her to do so.
And it wasn’t just her body. Her heart ached, too. She’d been so lonely without him.
It was still too dark to see his expression—his back was to the window—but perhaps there was enough light for him to see hers.
“Shall I get undressed?” His voice wasn’t completely steady.
“Yes.”
She scrambled out of her nightshift as he removed his coat. Then she watched as he shed his waistcoat, shirt, shoes, stockings and, finally, his pantaloons.
Three weeks ago his body had been so strange. Now it was familiar and precious, a gift she could hardly wait to hold again.
He climbed into bed and stretched out beside her. She put her arm over his chest, buried her face in the angle between his sho
ulder and neck, and breathed deeply. He smelled so good. He felt good, too, solid and strong. All the fear, the loneliness, the anxiety that had gripped her since he’d left drained away.
She ran her fingers over his chest, down his flat belly all the way to his male bit. It was long and hard and thick.
Desire surged in her again. She was empty, and she needed him to fill her.
“As you can see—or feel—I missed you rather dreadfully,” Marcus said with a breathless little laugh. And then he turned and brought his mouth down on hers.
There was nothing gentle or tentative or graceful about this lovemaking. Marcus tried at first to go slowly, but she was having none of it. Her need for him was too raw. Her hands slid down over his muscled back to grab his arse and pull him closer.
“Now, Marcus. Please.”
He didn’t argue.
She came apart the moment he entered, convulsing around him as he slid deep, deep into her. And then, as if in echo, she felt the warm pulse of his seed.
He collapsed onto her, and she held his damp, relaxed body tightly.
Oh, God, how she loved him.
He lay like that for a few moments, and she savored his solid weight pressing her into the mattress. Then he turned his head and brushed her cheek with his lips.
“That’s a splendid way to say good morning.” He lifted himself off her and drew her against his side, pulling the coverlet up over them.
“Mmm. I’d love to say good morning that way every morning.” She ran her fingers over his chest. She felt wonderful. Relaxed and at peace.
“That sounds like a brilliant idea.” He grinned. The room was lighter now so she could see his face clearly. His eyes gleamed, his smile was broader than she’d ever seen it. He looked very, very happy.
“Though I’m not a hundred percent certain I could survive the experience daily.” His grin widened even more. “But I would try. I would definitely try.”
She grinned back at him. Having him here was heaven, though the Almighty would likely not approve. At least there was no planning meeting to interrupt her today.
Wait a moment....
“How did you get in?”
“The same way I did last time—the back door.” He kissed her nose. “You really should lock it if you don’t want riffraff showing up in your bed.”
What to Do with a Duke Page 28
