“Now you’ve bloody well done it,” he growled as he swung his leg over and stalked to the far side of the sofa, bracing his hand on the wooden armrest. But he knew no matter how much distance he put between them, it would never be enough. The damage, such as it was, had already been done.
Now that she was no longer stuck, the redhead – Eleanor – quickly backed out from beneath the table and stood up. Innocent green eyes, flecked with gold and framed by thick auburn lashes, met his. There was a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, like cinnamon dusted on the top of a queen cake. He was suddenly filled with the nearly irrepressible urge to brush his thumb across her face and see if the freckles would melt away beneath his touch. A peculiar urge, as he was not an affectionate man. But then this had been a most peculiar evening.
“What have I done?” Eleanor asked, her brows knitting with confusion.
“What have you done?” His laugh was flat and humorless as his calculating gaze flicked to the woman who remained frozen in front of the door. At least she’d had the presence of mind to close it behind her, but rumors had a way of slipping through even the smallest of cracks. Rumors that would ruin him as surely as they would ruin Eleanor. If not for that wretched will…
“You’ve damned us both,” he said grimly. “That’s what you’ve done.”
Chapter Three
Eleanor was not surprised to discover the man who had grudgingly helped her was handsome. If there was one thing she’d learned over the past six Seasons, it was that arrogant men tended towards handsomeness. A pity, really. All those chiseled jaws and thick hair and strong chins wasted on conceited scoundrels who falsely believed they were superior to their peers because of their physical appearance, when in fact it was the inside of a person that mattered most.
Her scowling rescuer was tall and broad-shouldered with black hair swept back from a high, smooth temple and side whiskers that extended all the way down past his ears. He had distinct, evenly spaced features and a perfectly well-shaped mouth that was ruined by a frown. His eyes were the color of rich dark brandy, the sort her father kept high on the shelf in crystal decanters and only drank on very special occasions. A wide chest tapered down to a narrow waist and then widened into muscular thighs enclosed in fawn colored breeches. Eleanor’s cheeks pinkened when she remembered how those thighs had clenched around her hips, and she abruptly diverted her gaze to her mother.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long. I was looking for Henny, you see, and then I became stuck under the – what is it?” she asked when Lady Ward began to vehemently shake her head from side to side. “What’s wrong? Are you ill? You didn’t eat the shrimp, did you? Because you know what happens when you eat shrimp.”
“Oh Eleanor,” Lady Ward cried, clasping her gloved hands beneath her chin. “What have you done?”
Eleanor’s fair brow creased. Why was everyone under the impression she’d done something? Other than threatening to turn Henny loose on Lord Stanhope – no less than he’d deserved for nearly crippling her with his clumsy feet – she’d been on her best behavior for the entire evening. She hadn’t brought up a single new invention over dinner or made an embarrassment of herself while dancing. Yes, she’d gotten stuck under a table…but that wasn’t her fault. What was she supposed to have done? Just leave Henny in the parlor to her own devices? Speaking of which…
“Henny!” Her eyes widened. “I still need to find her.”
“Will you forget about that damn animal for one moment! This is serious, Eleanor.”
“You – you cursed.” Shocked to her very core, Eleanor stared at her mother with her mouth agape. “You never curse.”
“Yes, well, I’ve never walked in on my daughter in a compromising position with a man before either! I need to sit down,” Lady Ward muttered, clutching her temple. “I’m feeling very faint. Black dots. There are black dots everywhere.”
“Here.” Moving with impressive speed, the man whose name Eleanor still did not know lifted a chair and placed it behind her mother. Then he rocked back on his heels, crossed his arms, and skewered her with a glare so frigid she felt the chill of it all the way across the room.
“Your chaperone is correct,” he said. “This is serious. Someone of your age should have known better than to put herself in such a vulnerable position.”
Eleanor blinked. She knew two and twenty wasn’t considered young by any means, but she liked to think she had a few years left before she was sentenced to spinsterhood! Never mind that was precisely the sort of life she had in mind. But it was one thing to refer to herself as a spinster. Quite another when someone else did it, especially when that someone else was an overweening lord easily five years her senior!
“Someone of my age?” she replied indignantly. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you are not a fresh-faced debutante, inasmuch as you possess the ignorance of one.” One thick brow arched. “You should have known better than to have been alone in a room without a proper chaperone. You’ve ruined both of our lives, you stupid girl. And you don’t even have the good sense to realize it.”
If her jaw had dropped when her mother cursed, it positively sagged wide open now. But while most women would have burst into tears under the weight of such a crushing insult, Eleanor rose to the occasion like an Amazon strapping on her battle armor. Marching right up to her dark-eyed antagonist, she fearlessly jabbed a finger at the middle of his rock hard chest and snapped, “Better a stupid girl than an arrogant bounder whose head is so inflated it’s a wonder it remains attached to your neck!”
“Eleanor!” Lady Ward gasped, looking up at her daughter with horror. “You cannot speak to his grace like that! Apologize at once!”
Her slim shoulders stiffening, Eleanor stepped back and frowned down at her mother. “I most certainly will not. Did you hear what he said to me?”
“Please darling,” Lady Ward pleaded. “For once in your life, do as you are told.” She lowered her voice and flicked an anxious glance over her shoulder to where the stranger stood with an oddly smug expression on his face, as if he were greatly anticipating whatever Lady Ward was about to say next. “Don’t you have any idea whom you are speaking to? You have just insulted the Duke of Hawkridge. You simply must apologize.”
So the conceited cad was a duke, was he? Well bully on that. It didn’t matter if he was the King of England. A fancy title did not give him the right or the means to belittle her.
“I don’t care who he is,” she said, and was rewarded for her bold statement when the duke’s smug smirk was abruptly replaced by a hard, narrow-eyed scowl. “I’ve done nothing but call a donkey a donkey.” Her head tilted thoughtfully to the side. “Or in this case an ass an ass.”
“Oh,” Lady Ward moaned as she tipped forward and dropped her head between her knees. “The dots, the dots.”
“Mother, you are not going to – Henny!” Eleanor cried with delight when she saw a tiny black nose peeking out from beneath the curtains. Scurrying over to the window, she snatched up her pet and quickly returned her to the safe confines of her pocket. The little hedgehog let out a squawk of protest before curling up into a ball and promptly falling asleep, no doubt exhausted by all of the excitement she’d caused. Turning back towards the middle of the parlor, Eleanor discovered her mother sadly shaking her head from side to side while the duke stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a third arm.
“What the devil did you just put in your pocket?” he demanded.
“That was Henny. My hedgehog.”
“You have a bloody hedgehog?”
Her lips thinned. “Have you listened to anything I’ve said?”
“I’ve done my best not to,” he drawled, an insufferable smirk toying with the corners of his mouth.
Odious man. One would think a duke would possess better manners. Then again, she couldn’t exactly say she was surprised. Her sixth Season nearly completed and she’d yet to meet a single lord who was tolerable enough to en
gage in conversation for longer than five minutes. Presumptuous swine, the lot of them. And this one was no different from the rest.
“Now that I have found Henny, I am no longer in need of your services.” She gave a vague sweep of her arm, dismissing him as if he were nothing more than a lowly footman. But he didn’t leave. Instead, much to her general annoyance, he addressed her mother.
“Might I have the pleasure of learning your name, my lady?”
“Lady Ward, Your Grace,” said Eleanor’s mother with a tight, uneasy smile that furrowed her brow. “Lady Helena Ward.”
“Lady Ward.” The duke bowed, and Eleanor rolled her eyes. “I am sorry to make your acquaintance under such…straining circumstances. But I should very much like you to believe me when I say that absolutely nothing untoward happened between your daughter and me, despite what it may have looked like. However, let it be known I do realize the gravity of the situation at hand, as well as the fate that awaits your daughter should any word of this ever escape the room.”
“Of course nothing untoward happened,” Eleanor burst out. “I’d rather kiss Mr. Haybeak!”
Mr. Haybeak was her pet duck.
“Eleanor, be quiet,” Lady Ward snapped. “Let His Grace speak.”
“Why should he be allowed to talk while I–”
“Eleanor.”
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Henny and I will be over here.” Giving her pocket a reassuring pat, she retreated to the far corner of the parlor and pretended to look at the leather bound books lining the shelves.
“Please let me apologize on behalf of my daughter, Your Grace. She has always been headstrong. I fear her father and I did not do enough to curb her willfulness when she was a child, and she has carried that willful nature into adulthood.”
Eleanor bit back a snort as she pulled a book off the shelf and began to flip through the pages. In a society where tenacity and intelligence were frowned upon while docility and obedience were encouraged, she was glad to be in a possession of a willful nature.
“I can see that, Lady Ward. Your daughter is certainly…unique.”
“Thank you,” Lady Ward said, even though it was obvious the duke had not been paying a compliment.
“I take it she is unmarried?” he asked.
The book bobbled in Eleanor’s hand. Why would a duke care if she was wed or not?
“Yes, Your Grace. Although not for lack of offers. My daughter is very particular.”
This time Eleanor couldn’t quite silence her snort in time. The only offer she’d received had been from a baron old enough to be her grandfather. He’d passed away in his sleep before she’d been able to reject it.
“And she is not currently engaged?”
“No, Your Grace.”
The duke sighed. It was a heavy sigh. The sort of sigh a man gave right before he stepped up to the gallows and stretched out his neck. “Then I am afraid I see no other recourse.”
No other recourse? She didn’t like the sound of that. She didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “What are you–”
“I will marry your daughter, Lady Ward,” said the duke, effectively rendering Eleanor absolutely and completely speechless for the first time in her entire life. “It is, after all, the only right thing to do.”
Chapter Four
Lady Ward was crying.
Eleanor was shouting.
The hedgehog was chirping.
Ignoring all three of them, Derek went to the door and locked it, then angled a chair beneath the doorknob for good measure. No one was leaving the parlor until they had their bloody story straight. Desperately wishing he had a bottle of brandy at his disposal, he settled for draining the two flutes of champagne before he turned to face his reluctant (to put it mildly) fiancée and elated mother-in-law.
“Quiet.” He snapped the word out with the same sharp tone he used for his hounds, and it had a similar effect. At least on Lady Ward and the hedgehog. Eleanor was far more difficult to subdue. Not that he was surprised. ‘Willful nature’ indeed. The chit was what nightmares were born of. And he was going to marry her.
Here’s to you, Grandfather, he toasted silently as he tipped one of the empty flutes up towards the ceiling. Wherever you are, and we both know it isn’t heaven, I know you’re no doubt laughing your arse off, you old bastard.
After twenty-three years of constantly being told he wasn’t good enough, he wasn’t man enough, he wasn’t deserving enough to inherit a dukedom, Derek would be lying if he said he’d shed a tear over his grandfather’s coffin. His grandfather may have raised him – his own mother and father had perished in a boating accident when he was eleven years old – but there’d been no love lost between the two men. His grandmother, a sweet woman who had always snuck him hard candies, said it was because they were too much alike. Whatever the reason, Derek had been relieved when the tyrannical goat had finally met his maker. Until his grandfather’s solicitor had sat him down and explained the unusual terms of the late duke’s will.
It was really quite simple, which made it all the more infuriating. Derek would immediately inherit the title and all of the land and properties that went along with it. But he would only keep the title and the land and properties if he married before his twenty-ninth birthday and (here was the crux of the bloody matter) managed to avoid any major scandals.
The will was a way for his grandfather to control him even in death, and despite seeking the counsel of no less than two dozen different solicitors, he’d yet to discover a way to overturn the damned thing. Yes, it was unusual and even possibly illegal, all of the solicitors had told him. But in order to fight it he would have to go to the courts which were notoriously slow and cumbersome. It could take years before they ruled in his favor, and in the meantime everything – from his townhouse in London to Hawkridge Castle in Surrey – would be placed under the temporary care of the Crown.
Given that he had no intention of pandering to King George every time he wanted use of his own bloody money, Derek had grudgingly accepted the terms of the will. All things considered, it actually hadn’t been that bad. Mr. Evans, the solicitor in charge of making sure the terms of the will were met, was an annoying little fellow, but he’d stayed out of Derek’s way for the most part. He still had an entire year left to find a bride, and by some small miracle he’d even managed to keep his nose clean of any scandals – until a certain redhead with an affinity for odd pets asked him to help free her from underneath a table.
“I still don’t see why I have to marry him.” Hands on her narrow hips, Eleanor shot Derek a look of such utter revulsion that he blinked. “Who cares what other people say? I know the truth, which is that nothing happened!”
Her brown eyes shining, Lady Ward wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed her tight. “My darling,” she sniffled happily. “My sweet, darling girl. Do you know how proud of you I am?”
“For getting stuck under a table?” Eleanor said incredulously.
“Don’t be absurd,” Derek drawled. And because some perverse side of him liked it when her eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed with angry heat, he added, “Anyone can get stuck under a table. But it’s a rare lady who gets to marry a duke.”
There went her eyes and her cheeks, and he couldn’t help but grin at how easy she was to antagonize. He felt like a young lad again tugging on Mindy Caterwaul’s braids. Except that teasing had led to a kiss, whereas this was leading straight down the aisle.
“We’re not married yet,” Eleanor gritted out, glaring at him over her mother’s shoulder. “Nor will we ever be! I could never marry you.”
“Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious to hear her reasoning. Knowing he was the most eligible bachelor in all of England wasn’t arrogance; it was simple fact. For years debutantes and their overbearing mothers had been trying to catch him, as if he were a prized trout to be hauled out of the water and displayed on their mantle. He’d managed to keep up the pretense of looking for a wife while simultaneously avo
iding all of their advances. No small task, given the doggedness with which he’d been pursued. The Bow Street Runners were known far and wide as the best thief takers in all of London, but they were nothing compared to a desperate debutante.
Once he’d come home to find a young woman hiding behind one of his potted ferns. A potted fern, for the love of Christ! Thankfully his butler, a man accustomed to dealing with hysterical females, had managed to subdue the girl and send her on her way. Then there was the time he’d been accosted at the theatre. All he’d wanted to do was watch a bloody play in peace and quiet, but as soon as word got out that he was in one of the box seats absolute bedlam had ensued. He still had a mark on his arm where one lady’s nails had dug a little too deep in her frantic attempt to cling to him as he’d made his exit.
Dangerous creatures, debutantes. Yet here was one – although to be fair, she was several years past her debut – that had managed, with the help of a runaway hedgehog and a sharp nail, to finally do what no other woman could: catch the Duke of Hawkridge. She should have been crying tears of joy along with her mother. Instead he was fairly certain that if she’d been in possession of a dagger she would have already tried to stab him with it.
Repeatedly.
“Why not?” Managing to slip free of her mother’s embrace, Eleanor regarded him with wide eyes, her pink lips slightly parted and a faint wrinkle in the middle of her nose, as if she’d smelled something particularly distasteful. “For one thing, you’re a pompous, self-entitled rake who has no regard for a woman’s intelligence or her self-worth. You’ve spent your entire life being handed whatever you want, and it’s turned you into a conceited, bullying–”
“All right,” Derek growled, holding up his hand. “I get the bloody point. You don’t want to marry me.” Now it was his eyes that flashed. “Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Of course I have a choice!” She lifted her chin defiantly. “And I choose not to marry you.”
The Spring Duchess (A Duchess for All Seasons Book 2) Page 3
