Good God!
He stopped and blinked to clear his vision. No, his eyes had not deceived him. Miss Hutting had just pulled Marcus into a concealing clump of bushes.
Hadn’t Marcus learned anything from the disaster with Miss Rathbone?
It was the blasted curse. Marcus wouldn’t do anything so cabbage-headed if he was in his right mind. But what could Nate do to save him? He couldn’t very well “accidently” barge into those bushes.
He glanced back at Miss Davenport. Oh hell, she was staring, too. If she told anyone what she saw—
His blood ran cold. If those gossipy Boltwood sisters got wind of this, Marcus would be hard-pressed to avoid parson’s mousetrap, particularly as Miss Hutting’s father was the parson.
Well, this was something he could attend to. He’d have a word with Miss Davenport. Surely he could persuade her to keep mum.
He strode quickly toward the woman.
Miss Anne Davenport, baron’s daughter, looked at the Spinster House. It wasn’t a remarkable edifice. In fact, the place looked like all the other village houses—two stories, thatched roof, of average size. It was much smaller than Davenport Hall, the comfortable house she shared with her father.
And would all too soon share with a stepmother and stepbrothers.
Oh, God!
She forced herself to breathe deeply and finally the suffocating feeling passed.
The Spinster House would be spacious for a woman living alone.
She’d not given the place much thought before. She’d been only six when Miss Franklin, the current—no, the former—spinster had moved in twenty years ago. Miss Franklin had been very young at the time. Everyone expected her to be the Spinster House spinster for forty or fifty or even sixty years, if she enjoyed good health. So when Papa had taken up with Mrs. Eaton, Anne hadn’t thought the house was a solution to her impending problem.
But then just days ago, to the surprise and shock of the entire village, Miss Franklin had run off with Mr. Wattles, the music teacher, who turned out to be the son of the Duke of Benton and was now, with his father’s passing, the duke himself. Even the Boltwood sisters hadn’t sniffed out that story, and they were almost as accomplished at ferreting out secrets as Lady Dunlee, London’s premier gabble grinder.
And then the Duke of Hart had come to Loves Bridge, as he was required to do whenever the Spinster House fell vacant. Anne had had to pinch herself to prove she wasn’t dreaming when he’d interrupted their village fair meeting to post the notice announcing the Spinster House opening. The Almighty—or possibly Isabelle Dorring—had answered her prayers.
But her friends Jane Wilkinson and Catherine Hutting wanted to live in the Spinster House, too.
Yes, but her need was greater.
Melancholy washed over Anne. She bit her lip hard. Her mother had died almost ten years ago. She should be over her loss by now. And she was. The searing pain and the emptiness she’d thought would swallow her from the inside out were gone, at least most of the time. But there were still moments when she missed her mother dreadfully. Times she wanted to share something that had happened or ask her advice.
Like now.
How can Papa wish to marry Mrs. Eaton? She’s a year younger than I am.
But Mrs. Eaton was also a widow with two young sons. She could give her father an heir.
Her stomach twisted. The notion was disgusting. Obscene.
It was the way of the ton.
But it wasn’t the way of Loves Bridge. Surely the vicar would never behave in such a manner if he were widowed.
Of course, he already had a number of sons.
Anne glanced over at the vicarage—
Good God!
She shook her head and blinked, but she hadn’t imagined the scene. Cat was darting into the trysting bushes and hauling the Duke of Hart in after her.
What should I do? Run for the vicar? No. Cat could be ravaged before he arrived. I’ll have to save her myself. Surely together we can subdue the man. He might be stronger, but Cat and I are strong, too. The odds would be in our favor. I’ll just—
Wait a moment.
Cat had pulled the duke into the bushes, not the other way round.
Perhaps it was the duke who was in need of rescue.
But Cat wants to be the next Spinster House spinster. Why would she go into the trysting bushes with a man?
Anne stared at the bushes. It had been several minutes, and neither Cat nor the duke had emerged. The branches weren’t thrashing about. Clearly no one was struggling to get free.
Which could only mean they were doing something other than fighting in there.
Heavens! There was only one reason a couple went into the trysting bushes, and it wasn’t to discuss the weather.
If word gets out, Cat’s reputation will be ruined. The duke will have to marry her.
Anne chewed on her lip.
If the duke marries Cat, she can’t be the next Spinster House spinster. The choice will be between just Jane and me.
Excitement bubbled up in her chest.
She tried to push it back down. Cat and Jane were her closest friends. She’d known them for as long as she could remember. They’d shared confidences, cried on each other’s shoulders. Hadn’t Cat and Jane comforted her just the other day when she’d told them the sorry tale of Papa and Mrs. Eaton?
But Cat had definitely been the one forcing the duke into the shrubbery. She must have changed her mind about a life of spinsterhood.
Of course she had. The Duke of Hart was nothing like Mr. Barker, the stodgy farmer Cat’s mother had been throwing at her head these last few years. His Grace was handsome and wealthy. And he didn’t have an annoying mother living with him. If Cat married him, she’d have time and room to write the novels she’d always wanted to write. And if there really was a curse hanging over his head, she’d be a wealthy widow before long.
I’d be doing her a favor in spreading the tale.
It wouldn’t take much. Just a word in one of the Boltwood sisters’ ears and the story—likely a much embroidered version of the story—would be all over the village in an hour or two.
The Spinster House should go to a true spinster, not a fallen woman....
“Miss Davenport.”
“Ack!” She jumped several inches above the walkway. Dear God, the Marquess of Haywood was at her elbow.
Her heart gave an odd little jump as well.
She’d met many men of the ton—she’d had a Season and been dragged to endless house parties—but she’d never met a gentleman like Lord Haywood. With the strong planes of his face, his straight nose and thin, sculpted lips, he could be a Greek statue come to life. And his warm, hazel eyes seemed to look straight into her soul. When he’d opened the door for her at the inn the other day, she’d had to curl her fingers into fists to keep from brushing back the lock of brown hair that fell over his brow.
He’d been so serious, so unlike his friend, Lord Evans. Lord Evans had laughed and flirted, but when Lord Haywood had spoken—just a few polite words—odd tendrils of warmth had curled low in her belly. Even now, though his tone had been rather harsh, his voice sent excitement fluttering through her.
“I didn’t see you approach, my lord.” My voice doesn’t sound as breathless as I think, does it?
If it did, the man didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and it annoyed him. His brows slanted down farther.
“You didn’t see me because your attention was elsewhere.”
He sounded disapproving. She wasn’t the one engaged in scandalous behavior. In fact, now that she thought more about it, she remembered hearing the Boltwoods gossiping about the duke at the fair planning meeting.
“Indeed, it was. I was quite surprised—shocked, really—to see His Grace bringing his London tricks to Loves Bridge, exploring the vegetation with a marriageable female.”
I should definitely spread the story. The man can’t be allowed to continue to prey on young women.
Lord Haywo
od’s mouth flattened into a hard, thin line and his aristocratic nostrils flared. “Miss—”
“Merrow.”
His frown moved from her to the large black, white, and orange cat who’d appeared at their feet. “What the—” He pressed his lips together, clearly swallowing some less-than-polite comment. “Go along, cat.”
The cat sat down on the walk and stared at him.
“That’s Poppy,” Anne said to fill the oddly strained silence. “She lives in the Spinster House.”
The marquess glared at her.
What would Mama make of him?
A thread of sadness tightened round her heart. She would never know.
The marquess turned his glare back to Poppy. “Now what’s the matter with the animal?”
“What do you-oh.” Poppy was behaving rather strangely. Her back was arched, hair standing on end, and she was hissing. But it wasn’t Cat’s scandalous behavior in the bushes that she was objecting to. No, Poppy was looking down the walk toward the inn.
“I think the Misses Boltwood are coming this way,” Anne said.
Poppy must agree. She yowled and darted toward the Spinster House.
“Blo—” Lord Haywood caught himself. “Blast. I just encountered them headed in the other direction.”
“Well, I suppose it might be another set of elderly ladies. They are still too far off for me to see clearly. In a—what are you doing?”
The marquess had grabbed her hand and was tugging on it, trying to get her to go off in the direction Poppy had taken.
“I’m hauling you out of harm’s way. Perhaps they haven’t noticed us yet.”
Sadly a part of her wanted to go with him, but the more sensible part urged her to dig in her heels. Vanishing into the bushes with a man was bad, but going inside an empty house—with bedrooms and beds!—was far worse. “Lord Haywood, the Spinster House is locked.”
“I know that. I’m following the cat into the garden.”
She’d just come from the garden. It made the trysting bushes look like a few small shrubs. “The garden is completely overgrown.”
“Precisely. The vegetation should hide us nicely.” He pulled on her hand again. “Hurry along, will you? Do you want those gossips to find us together?”
An unmarried man and woman conversing in public on a village road wasn’t at all remarkable, but with this man it suddenly seemed scandalous. And it was true the Boltwood sisters could weave a tale that made sitting in Sunday services sound sinful.
All right. If she were being completely honest with herself, the thought of going into the wild Spinster House garden with Lord Haywood was surprisingly thrilling. Silly. He looked like he was more likely to throttle her than kiss her. . . .
He won’t really throttle me, will he?
Of course not. She stopped resisting and let him pull her into the shadowy leafage. She would have heard if the ton considered the marquess dangerous. All anyone ever said of him was that he’d dedicated himself to keeping his cousin single and thus safe from Isabelle Dorring’s curse.
Oh.
Perhaps she shouldn’t mention she was hoping to force the duke to marry Cat.
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Copyright © 2015 by Sally MacKenzie
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ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3712-5 ISBN-10: 1-4201-3712-3
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What to Do with a Duke Page 31
