Marcus frowned at her. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Catherine. Besides, we don’t have time. I wish to see your father and get that license today.”
“Yes, of course.” How could Marcus not be as curious as she was? “Let’s just read the last entry, then. That should only take a minute.” She shook his arm a little. “Please? It will eat at me until we do.”
Marcus stared down at her. For a moment she was afraid he would refuse, but then he shrugged. “Very well.”
He glanced up at Isabelle as if he was waiting for her to forbid this invasion, but then carefully turned the pages.
Isabelle had had rather large and flowing handwriting, ornamented with far too many flourishes until the last few entries. Then her writing became smaller and more cramped as if her spirit had shrunk as well.
“Here it is,” Marcus said. “Well, it’s not an entry, really. It’s addressed to the third duke.”
He read:
August 4, 1617
To the Duke of Hart:
“I shall never forgive you for promising me marriage and then wedding another. You have taken my heart, so I am taking your firstborn, the child who should be your heir.
Cat looked up at Marcus. “She couldn’t have known the baby was a boy.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps she really was a witch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Look, do you want me to read this or not?”
“Read it, of course. I promise to hold my tongue.”
He raised his brows, but when she kept her lips pressed tightly together, he went back to the book.
You shall never see him. I hope no Duke of Hart ever sees his heir until one of them has the courage to marry for love and not for profit or influence or to please his bloody mama. You are a craven scoundrel, sirrah. May you suffer even one-tenth the pain you have caused me.”
Isabelle Dorring
Marcus looked up at Isabelle as he finished and bowed. “I must agree with you, madam. My sincere apologies for my ancestor’s behavior.”
Cat tugged on Marcus’s arm. “You know, Isabelle never says she’s going to drown herself. She doesn’t even curse anyone. Not really.”
“Perhaps that’s in the papers Wilkinson has.”
“Perhaps.” Cat felt a flicker of hope. “Or perhaps there isn’t a curse.”
Marcus frowned. “Explain that to my ancestors.”
“Their deaths could be coincidences.”
His right brow winged up in skepticism. “That’s a lot of coincidences.”
She wasn’t going to waste precious time arguing with him now. “What does the letter say?”
“Let’s see if Poppy will let us read it.”
Poppy had put her paws on the paper, but she sat up when Marcus reached for it and graciously allowed him to take it. She watched as he broke the seal and opened the single sheet.
He gave a low whistle.
“What is it?” Cat pressed close to him again, and Marcus put his arm around her.
“It’s from the third duke, and it’s also dated August 4.”
“What does it say?” Marcus was holding the paper too high for her to see. “Read it—or give it to me to read myself.”
“Impatient, are you?”
“Yes!” How could the man joke at such a moment? They might be on the verge of learning something important. “Don’t tease me.”
“But it’s so amusing to do so.”
Cat actually stamped her foot.
Marcus laughed and looked back at the letter. “Gah! I can’t imagine what Isabelle saw in my popinjay ancestor. The fellow’s prose is so florid and full of hyperbole, it’s painful.”
“Then just give me the gist of it.” This was not the time for Marcus to turn into a literary critic.
“Very well.” His eyes scanned the lines and his brows shot up. “Apparently the duke’s mother found Isabelle’s letter about the baby—it had come to London while the duke was still away at a house party. His mother read it and, being very much against that match, decided to put a false notice in the papers. The duke hadn’t married Lady Amanda at all. They weren’t even betrothed.” He looked up at Isabelle’s portrait, sounding a bit dazed. “And the poor girl must never have known.”
“Good heavens!” The effrontery of the duchess was breathtaking. “Can you do that—publish a lie?”
Marcus shrugged. “Some would say everything in the newspapers is a lie. However, in this case the duchess was apparently bosom friends with the publisher’s wife so could print whatever she wanted.” He looked back at the letter. “Good God, the duke writes that he is coming to Loves Bridge the next day to marry Isabelle.”
“And when he arrived, everyone told him she’d drowned herself.” Cat looked at the painting. Did Isabelle look surprised? Happy?
I really am losing my mind if I think a two hundred-year-old painting can hear what we’re saying.
Marcus nodded. “He must have found this, realized Isabelle hadn’t read it, and locked it and her diary away here.” He folded the letter back up.
“So everything was his mother’s fault.” Cat wished she could travel back in time and offer the duchess a piece of her mind. “Well, and Isabelle’s, too. If Isabelle had only waited to talk to the duke directly, none of this—the supposed curse, the Spinster House—would have happened. Isabelle would have married her duke and become the next duchess.”
“Yes, but the duke does bear some responsibility. He should have been far more decisive from the beginning.” Marcus shook his head, putting the letter and the diary back in the drawer. “This does change things. It will take me a while to fully comprehend what it means.”
“I know what it means! It means you don’t have to worry about the silly curse any longer. You’ll live a long, wonderful life, and we’ll have a family together. Oh, Marcus, aren’t you happy?” She wanted to throw her arms around him and dance for joy.
But she didn’t. Marcus did not look convinced. “Perhaps.”
She tried to tamp down her enthusiasm. “And even if there is a curse, your mother thought you’d be the one to break it.”
“Yes, she said as much to me.”
What was the matter with him? “You’re marrying me for love, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He smiled then and touched her stomach above the place their child was growing. “I suppose we’ll know for certain about the curse in nine months’ time, won’t we?”
“Not in nine months’ time—now.” She did wrap her arms around him then. “You must decide to live as if the curse is broken. Don’t let it shadow your happiness another moment.”
“I’ll try.” He cupped her face. “Having you by my side”—he grinned—“and in my bed will certainly help.”
He kissed her, and she tightened her hold on him. She would do anything she could to keep him from worrying about the future.
Kissing seemed to be working. His hands were beginning to wander in a very interesting direction—
“Merrow!”
Cat jerked back as Poppy yowled and sprang down from her perch on the cabinet.
“Oh, Poppy! You startled me.”
“Yes. Rather poor timing, madam,” Marcus said. “Miss Hutting and I were in the midst of a very interesting, er, discussion.”
Poppy, looking not at all contrite, blinked at them and then ran out of the room and down the stairs.
Marcus laughed. “I guess it’s just as well we were interrupted. We still need to seek out your parents so I can make an honest woman of you.”
Cat laughed back at him. “And I an honest man of you.”
“Yes, indeed.” He offered her his arm. “I am very much looking forward to that.”
She put her hand on his sleeve, and they followed Poppy down the stairs and out of the Spinster House.
Curious about the curse?
Keep reading for an excerpt from
HOW TO MANAGE A MARQUESS,
the next book in the
Spinster House Series.
And don’t miss
IN THE SPINSTER’S BED
to learn all about the exploits of
Miss Franklin and Mr. Wattles.
Available now from Zebra eBooks!
Loves Bridge, 1817
Nathaniel, Marquess of Haywood, strode across the road from Cupid’s Inn, where he’d left his horse, to the Loves Bridge village green, all the while arguing with himself.
Slow down. You don’t want to attract attention.
But Marcus is in danger.
You don’t know that. And you can’t burst into the vicarage in a panic. Think of how odd it would look and how angry Marcus would be.
Oh, hell.
He stopped and took a deep breath. He was overreacting. This was Loves Bridge, not London. Miss Hutting, the woman who he feared wished to trap Marcus into marriage, was a vicar’s daughter, not a conniving Society chit. Marcus had said she wanted to be the next Spinster House spinster, not the next Duchess of Hart.
But apparently everyone thought Miss Hutting would make a splendid duchess. Worse, they seemed to think Marcus was attracted to the girl.
He started walking again.
He’d just finished an excellent meal—he and Alex, the Earl of Evans, had been congratulating each other on avoiding the dinner at the vicarage—when he’d happened to hear Marcus’s steward talking to Mr. Dunly, the steward’s assistant and Miss Hutting’s sister’s betrothed. That’s how he’d learned of the gossip.
And when he’d shared it with Alex, Alex hadn’t been surprised. He’d known about it and hadn’t told him, blast it. But then, Alex didn’t think Marcus’s life was in danger. He didn’t believe in the curse.
Bloody hell! He should have been more suspicious when Marcus was willing to accept that dinner invitation. He’d just assumed his cousin—well, really far more like his brother as they’d grown up together—was safe here. Loves Bridge was the curse’s birthplace. Surely the villagers would realize the Duke of Hart had to avoid marriage as long as he could.
Yet it appeared that none of the villagers believed in the curse either.
Why the hell didn’t they? They and their ancestors had seen it play out. Marriage was a death sentence for a Duke of Hart. For two hundred years, none had lived to see his heir born.
And now that Marcus had passed his thirtieth birthday, it was getting harder and harder to keep him safe. Good God, he’d never expected Marcus to go out in Palmerson’s gardens and end up in the bushes with that Miss Rathbone. He’d been so relieved when they’d left London for Loves Bridge. Stupidly, he’d let his guard down.
I hope I’m overreacting.
He should have made it a point to find out more about the vicar and his family. He—
“Good evening, Lord Haywood.”
Damnation. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the two old ladies strolling toward him. They must be the Boltwood sisters. What wretched luck. Alex had told him—Alex always knew these things somehow—that they were the leading gossips of this little village.
He forced his lips into a smile and bowed slightly. “Good evening, ladies.”
“Looking for some company, my lord?” The shorter woman batted her eyelashes at him.
Nate repressed a shudder. “No. My thoughts are company enough, madam.”
The other old woman clicked her tongue. “A handsome young lord like you alone with your thoughts? That will never do.”
Her sister nodded and then waggled her thin white eyebrows suggestively. “We saw Miss Davenport loitering around the Spinster House, looking very lonely.”
Miss Davenport.
A very inappropriate part of him stirred at the name.
Miss Davenport had arrived at the inn the other day just as he and Alex were coming to have a pint while waiting for Marcus to finish posting the Spinster House vacancy notices—with Miss Hutting, as he later discovered.
But Miss Davenport—Zeus! She’d looked like an angel, the sun touching her smooth, honey-blonde hair, making it glow. Her eyes were as blue as a lake on a cloudless summer day. He’d looked down into them as he’d opened the door for her and felt himself being pulled deeper and deeper . . .
He frowned. He’d seen dark currents swirling below her polite expression and had a sudden, bizarre urge to ask what was troubling her. It was quite unlike him. He’d even inhaled to speak, but her clean, sweet scent had gone straight to his, er, head and caused all rational thought to evaporate.
Thank God Alex had spoken. She’d looked away, and the odd connection he’d felt with her had broken.
And it would stay broken. I am not in the market for a wife.
Oh, blast. He’d let his mind wander a bit too long. The Misses Boltwood were now snickering and nudging each other.
He sniffed in his best marquess manner and looked down his nose at them. “I’m quite certain Miss Davenport would not welcome my intrusion into her solitude, ladies. If you saw her by the Spinster House, she might well be entertaining hopes of being the next Spinster House spinster.” Marcus had told him the woman was one of the three ladies—along with Miss Hutting and a Miss Wilkinson—vying for that position, though Miss Davenport might not care for him sharing that detail with the queens of the local gossips.
Miss Davenport a spinster? What a waste of—
The woman’s matrimonial plans—or lack thereof—were none of his concern.
“The Spinster House!” The shorter of the Misses Boltwood curled her lip and snorted. “I can’t imagine what Isabelle Dorring was thinking when she established that place. Spinsterhood is an unnatural state.”
The other Miss Boltwood nodded. “A woman needs a man to protect her and give her children.”
Her sister elbowed her, waggling her eyebrows again. “And keep her warm at night.”
Since both ladies looked to have reached their sixth or seventh decade without nabbing a husband for themselves, their enthusiasm for the activities of the marriage bed was more than a little alarming.
“As you must know,” Nate said, “Miss Dorring had good reason to distrust men. It’s not surprising she would wish to offer other women a way to live comfortably without the need to marry.” Miss Dorring had been very badly served by the third Duke of Hart. The man had got her with child and then wed another. And so the woman had cursed Marcus’s line.
Familiar worry knotted Nate’s gut again. Was Marcus safe? Surely nothing terrible could happen at the vicar’s dinner table.
The taller Miss Boltwood shrugged and flicked her fingers at him. “Bah. From all accounts, Isabelle knew what she was about. Her mistake was letting the duke into her bed before she’d got him to the altar.”
“Though you must admit, Gertrude, that if that duke looked anything like this duke, poor Isabelle can be forgiven for getting her priorities confused.” The shorter Miss Boltwood’s lips curved in what could only be considered a lascivious fashion. “Have you seen the man’s calves? His shoulders?”
These elderly ladies can’t be lusting after Marcus.
The thought was too horrifying to contemplate.
“I’m not blind, am I, Cordelia? And what about his—”
“I’m afraid I must continue on my way, ladies.” It might be rude to interrupt the women, but some things could never be unheard.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Miss Gertrude winked. “Here we are, keeping you cooling your heels when you must be anxious to meet Miss Davenport.”
“I am not meeting Miss Davenport.”
Unfortunately.
No! Where the hell had that thought come from? There was nothing unfortunate about it. He had no time for nor interest in a marriageable woman.
Why not?
Because I have to keep Marcus safe. There would be time enough to marry later, after Marcus—
No. I can’t think about that.
“You aren’t the duke, my lord,” Miss Cordelia said. “You don’t have to worry about the silly curse.”
Miss Gertrude nodded. “And Miss Davenport is a comely armful in need of a husband.”
Very comely . . .
She could be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was not for him.
“And I’m certain some estimable man will realize that.” He bowed again. “If you will excuse me?”
He didn’t wait for their permission. He wanted to get out of earshot as quickly as possible.
He wasn’t quick enough.
“The marquess has an impressive set of shoulders, too, Gertrude.”
“Yes, indeed. Miss Davenport is a very lucky woman.”
He resisted the urge to turn and shout back at them that he had no interest in Miss Davenport.
Which would be a lie.
But he could have no interest in the girl. What he had—must have—was an immediate interest in Marcus’s safety.
He strode—
No. Slow down. Don’t be obvious. Marcus will be angry if he thinks I’m spying on him.
And he wasn’t spying, precisely. He was merely keeping a watchful eye out.
He strolled toward the vicarage, which just happened to be directly across from the Spinster House. Was Miss Davenport still there? He didn’t wish to encourage any gossip, but surely it wouldn’t be remarkable to engage the woman in conversation if he encountered her. Actually, it would be an excellent thing to do. That way he could watch for Marcus without being obvious about it.
Ah, Miss Davenport was still there, dressed in a blue gown that he’d wager was the same shade as her eyes. A matching blue bonnet covered her lovely blonde hair. She was slender, though not too slender, and just the right height. If he held her in his arms, her head would come up to his—
Bloody hell! I’m not holding the girl in my arms.
He jerked his eyes away from her—an action that was far harder than it should have been—to look toward the vicarage. What luck! Marcus was just leaving. Miss Hutting was with him, but in a moment the girl would—
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