Billy shook his head in a knowledgeable way. “Mr. Ackley is old. This man was not.”
“Ah.”
“He has a nice tailcoat,” Billy remarked. “Many buttons.”
Mama frowned and halted her rhythmic stitching.
The ton possessed nice tailcoats, but no one was supposed to know their location.
“The buttons are shiny,” Billy expanded. “And he’s wearing a top hat.”
“You must be the most observant six-year-old child there is,” Genevieve said.
Billy’s chest broadened. “He’s coming to this cottage.”
Mama and Genevieve exchanged glances. Mama’s face had whitened. Mama’s face was perpetually whitening, no doubt whenever she thought of the creditors. Father was in London, attempting to procure funds and see if anyone wanted to take on the expense of managing a large manor house in the middle of nowhere with a long-ago-destroyed topsoil unsuitable for anything except the occasional amble.
Since no joyful letter had arrived proclaiming the presence of a buyer, Genevieve suspected no such miraculous occurrence had happened.
Perhaps the miraculous occurrence would never happen.
“It’s probably someone about the property,” Genevieve said. “Perhaps even someone to fix the leak.”
Mama brightened.
Billy eyed Genevieve skeptically, moving an eyebrow upward. “You don’t believe that.”
“It’s possible,” Genevieve said, her voice defensive.
Footsteps sounded on the stone, and Genevieve and her mother settled onto the sofa. Genevieve smoothed her dress hastily, as much from nervousness as a desire to look presentable for this stranger.
Genevieve glanced through the window at the approaching figure. Despite the general stinginess of the window’s size, the person was unmistakable.
The smile Genevieve had plastered on her face wobbled, then shook, then toppled entirely. Blood drained from her face, and when Mama elbowed her, no doubt so Genevieve might rise and curtsy, Genevieve battled the instinct to faint.
This was no new servant come to assist with the roof. Nor was this some friendly neighbor, driven as much by curiosity as by the prospect of fresh small talk and the potential of impressing newcomers with his local knowledge and amiableness to newcomers.
No.
This was a duke.
More specifically, this was the Duke of Sandridge. Genevieve had met him over the summer. Her stomach sank, as if determined to succumb to the gravity seventeenth-century scientists had made their life’s work.
“You look pale. Are you well?” Mama asked, even though maternal questions had never been part of their lives before.
There’d always been nannies, then governesses to separate them.
Now there was no one. They’d only been able to take a single servant with them to the cottage, and though Genevieve’s mother declared the separation from everything immaculate and sumptuous and extravagant was temporary—the hushed conversations between her and Papa indicated the opposite.
“Me? Unwell?” Genevieve shook her head hastily, and a lock fell from her chignon. She struggled to fix her hair. “Nonsense.”
Mother sighed, as if already disinterested with her short attempt at maternal qualities.
Footsteps sounded at the door, then pounding.
“Mama! Mama!” Billy shouted. “The strange man is at the door.”
“And so eager to visit us.” Mama gave a benign smile. “We haven’t lost all our importance. Please open it, Billy. Sally has gone shopping.”
The pounding continued, then the door flew open.
Genevieve jumped from the sofa, an athletic feat given its close level to the ground and the unevenly sagging cushions that adorned it. “On second thought, Mama, I feel unwell.”
Mama scrutinized her. “You don’t appear weak.”
Oh, no.
“Genevieve’s strong as an ox,” Billy declared. “Everyone knows that.”
Footsteps thundered on the corridor, and this time, Genevieve didn’t need to feign trembling. Dread gobbled her, gnawing at her chest, her knees, her throat.
Though none of Genevieve’s nannies and governesses had felt compelled to issue complaints about Genevieve, considering her adequately gifted in the art of sharing and unlikely to sneak reptiles into their rooms like their naughtiest charges did, the Duke of Sandridge did not share Genevieve’s former governesses’ blithe impressions of her.
It didn’t matter how many people might term Genevieve placid, pleasant and peaceful, nor did it matter how vigorously Genevieve sought to instill similar values in her younger brother. Goodness knew her parents were too occupied with their dwindling coffers to muse over the importance of abstract values, particularly those not aligned with achieving and maintaining wealth. The Duke of Sandridge still loathed her.
He couldn’t know she was here: she had shot him.
The duke was apt to remark upon their past meeting, and Genevieve suspected her mother might find it of interest that Genevieve had met the duke in the past, alone and with no introduction.
But then, one generally didn’t obtain introductions to strange men when one was occupied with taking illicit carriage rides with one’s cousin. It didn’t matter how vital one’s cousin considered the carriage ride, or how convinced she’d been that her betrothed was bleeding in a ditch and might soon start hearing cherubic voices welcoming him to St. Peter’s Gate. Genevieve knew she shouldn’t have accompanied her cousin Juliet on her misguided mission, and even though Genevieve had protected her cousin and her admirably with the use of her pearl-hilted pistol, she doubted Mother would be equally enthusiastic about Genevieve’s aim.
Certainly, the Duke of Sandridge had lacked enthusiasm.
Genevieve’s heart careened in her chest.
She’d shot somebody: a duke.
And now he was in her cottage.
SEBASTIAN FLUNG OPEN the door to the tiny drawing room. The doorknob battered the wall, but Sebastian didn’t care. Once Sebastian officially returned to the cottage, he would fix it.
The two women on the sofa widened their eyes, and their eyebrows lurched unladylike over their foreheads, as if venturing to escape from Sebastian’s presence.
Good.
The women’s sudden fright couldn’t compare to the horror he’d experienced at learning his cottage was let, but it was a start.
The two women were blonde with sufficient similar features for Sebastian to believe them related. They were dressed in white muslin dresses, a color that was impractical when ambling along the cliffs. Indeed, the color was even impractical when one’s only desire was to move from one’s barouche to Almack’s entry.
Sebastian furrowed his brow. The women did not resemble ocean enthusiasts.
The women rose, no doubt to curtsy. The polite gesture was unnecessary. This was no time for the gallantry his medieval ancestors had espoused.
The younger blonde woman looked familiar.
Terribly familiar.
Memories of a woman shooting him filled his mind. The upward curve of her nose and the roundness of her cheeks were imprinted on his mind.
He extended an arm and pointed. “It’s you.”
The younger woman’s face paled. The fact did not hamper her loveliness. Her tiny nose still arched up in that gentle manner, her cheeks remained delectably round if not currently rosy, and her glossy pale blonde hair reminded him of summer and sunflowers and all things splendid.
But even Lucifer himself was supposed to be of pleasing appearance before he decided to align himself with Satan and his underworld.
“What is he speaking about?” the older woman asked.
“N-Nothing,” Miss Genevieve said, sinking back into the pillows, as if his mere presence scared her.
Sebastian stepped forward.
“Please forgive my daughter.” The older woman dipped into an elegant curtsy. She cast a stern look at her child. “Apparently, she has lost all sense.”
The older woman blinked. “I do not recall being introduced to you.”
“I am Sebastian, the Duke of Sandridge,” Sebastian declared, before swooping into a deep bow designed more to show off his bowing skills than to give this appalling family respect.
“A-A pleasure to meet you.” The woman glanced at her daughter, who was examining the floor.
“It is an unmutual feeling,” Sebastian said.
His former nurse would be horrified at his words, but she’d also taken pleasure at spanking him when not demeaning him for being naughty, and Sebastian didn’t care what she thought.
Besides, she was dead.
Everyone was dead.
“I am Mrs. Potter, and this is my daughter, Miss Potter, and my son, Mr. Potter.”
Sebastian surveyed the child for Satan-like qualities. The boy didn’t appear to be spurting fire. Indeed, his blonde curls were commonly found on depictions of cherubs, but Sebastian supposed he had time to grow into his appalling qualities.
“I have met your daughter,” Sebastian growled. “She went by another name then.”
Miss Faux-Potter widened pale blue eyes that sparkled just like the ocean on a particularly sunny day. Sometimes he forgot that oceans were prone to sudden violent waves that swept up unexpectedly, drowning everything within its ample reach.
Silence pervaded through the room. The only sound was the waves. Waves he would be swimming in if he had this cottage.
“I believe you were speaking about your daughter’s lack of sense. It is a quality about her with which I am most aware.”
Miss Potter shook her head slightly.
Sebastian didn’t care if her head careened.
“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Potter asked finally.
“Yes,” he said. “A grave problem.”
Miss Potter’s face whitened further, and he forced himself to focus on Mrs. Potter. He wasn’t going to contemplate Miss Potter’s slight quivering. She managed to appear so feminine, and he stifled the instinct to gaze at her reassuringly and venture into a complaint on the weather rather than on her behavior.
No doubt, she would like that.
“Mama, perhaps you can bring some tea for His Grace,” Miss Potter suggested.
“I suppose I can inform the maid to do that,” Mrs. Potter said. “And tell Cook.”
The little boy wrinkled his brow. “What are you talking about?”
Mrs. Potter cast a nervous look, then grabbed his shoulders and ushered him from the room.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DOOR CLOSED, FOOTSTEPS padded away, and Genevieve was alone with the duke.
“It’s you,” Genevieve said dumbly.
“Most people refer to me as Your Grace.” The duke flashed a smug smile.
Genevieve pretended her heart wasn’t fluttering and narrowed the distance between them. “Please, leave.”
“Most people would be excited to have a duke visit.”
“Most people are foolish.” Genevieve gave him a stern look. “Especially you.”
“You wound me,” the duke said in mock distress.
“What are you doing here?” Genevieve whispered harshly.
“You’re in my cottage,” the duke explained.
Genevieve blinked. “I-I don’t understand.”
“A common predicament for you, no doubt. But this is my cottage.”
Nothing about the statement on its own should be fear-inducing. It was common for aristocrats to rent out cottages and buildings. They’d built so much of their wealth on doing just that. Most aristocrats owned more buildings than they could possibly live in.
And yet, Genevieve’s heart still beat more quickly, and her knees, despite her penchant for athleticism, a hobby honed while wandering the steep slopes prevalent in the Lake District, still trembled.
“We’re renting the cottage,” Genevieve said.
“You won’t be for longer.”
Genevieve blinked. “We paid in full. I don’t understand.”
Did the duke know something about her family’s circumstances that she didn’t know? Did he know Papa? She hadn’t remembered them speaking together, but had they perhaps developed a friendship?
“It was rented by mistake. Please find another cottage for your holiday. I shall be occupying this one immediately.”
“You want us to move?”
“Precisely.”
Genevieve stared.
The duke shifted his legs. The bare floorboards, unobscured by any carpet, creaked noisily, as if equally suspicious of him.
“That’s not easy,” Genevieve said finally.
“No?” The duke shrugged. “You can stay in the posting inn while you find something.”
Genevieve swallowed hard. Her mother had been able to rent the cottage for an excellent price. They couldn’t afford to search for a new cottage. They couldn’t even afford to stay at a posting inn.
“We won’t do it,” Genevieve said. “We refuse to do so.”
Bemusement spread on the duke’s face. “But why not?”
“We signed a contract,” Genevieve said obstinately.
The duke scrutinized her. “You can’t tell me it’s a financial issue.”
“Of course not,” Genevieve lied. “That would be...absurd.”
Genevieve laughed, certain the duke would be able to see through her lie, but instead, he narrowed his eyes.
“You’re just entitled,” he said. “You don’t want to move, just to be cruel. You were probably eager for a chance to use your pistol on a live target.”
“That’s nonsense,” Genevieve said softly, remembering the fear she’d felt that night, when the duke had waylaid her carriage, disguised as a highwayman.
“I don’t believe a word you say.”
“You don’t have to. My mother and brother are going to come through that door at any moment. You just have to leave. Otherwise, I will tell people you were posing as a highwayman.”
The duke drew in his breath, then scowled. “And I will tell them what a vile creature you are. I doubt your mother will be pleased you shot me.”
Genevieve shuddered, as if the duke had actually shaken her.
“It was an accident.”
“She might see things differently.”
“Nonsense,” Genevieve said. “She would be fully supportive.”
“Of you taking a carriage ride late at night? Unchaperoned?”
“I was with my best friend and a dear staff member.”
“A dear male staff member. One unable to appropriately protect you.”
“The only person causing damage was you.”
“In that instance. You were just lucky.” The duke shrugged, and sunlight settled in his blonde locks from the open window. The man glowed. He practically glittered.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Genevieve’s veins prickled, as if her blood resisted its normal path in his presence.
“If someone else with actual criminal intent had stopped my carriage, I would have shot him too. Now, please leave. I don’t like conversing with trespassers.”
“Are you insulting a duke?” Anger laced with something else—perhaps amusement, perhaps only wonder at her impertinence—rippled through his voice.
“Yes. You can leave me off your invitation list for your next ball,” Genevieve said impatiently. “You can imagine me being frightfully wounded.”
“You should be,” the duke drawled. “I give fabulous balls.”
“Yes, everything about you is fabulous. You’ve implied that before. The thing is—I don’t see it.”
The duke’s face stiffened, and it occurred to Genevieve that she may have been overly forceful in her dismissal of him. The man looked the same way as Billy looked before he burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” Genevieve apologized. “Perhaps that
was uncalled for.”
Unlike Billy, the duke did not burst into tears. His lower lip didn’t wobble, and wetness didn’t glaze his eyes. His face didn’t even turn a puce shade.
Instead, his features grew more rigid, like an imperfectly put on mask. The duke decreased the distance between them, and Genevieve was conscious of an oddly pleasant scent of cedar and citrus. The scent was more masculine than the rose and other floral perfumes her mother had insisted on bringing from Cumberland, even though Sally had warned that the fragile glass containers might shatter on the journey. The scent was every bit as pleasant despite its dearth of floral notes.
“You will be sorry,” the duke said.
She stared at him. In the background, Billy and her mother were speaking. No doubt, Mama was realizing the difficulty of making tea and preparing a tray of sweets. Mama was accustomed to running a household with a fleet of servants.
“I’m going to take the cottage away from you,” the duke said.
“But why?”
“Because I want it. And because you don’t deserve it.” The duke spoke matter-of-factly. His eyes sparkled merrily, and sunlight shone from the tiny window, imbuing his blonde strands with a golden glow. He looked handsome, but Genevieve’s eyelashes didn’t flutter, and her heart didn’t quicken.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Genevieve raised her chin. “You’re going to steal this shabby run-down cottage from us?”
“You dare call it a shabby cottage?” The duke narrowed his eyes. “You can stay somewhere else. I know your family has money.”
Genevieve stiffened and decided not to counter that particular argument.
“Besides, you don’t even appreciate the place,” the duke continued.
“Does everything about you require constant compliments?” Genevieve asked. “Even homes you rent to others?”
He blinked. “I don’t require compliments—that would be absurd. Though, I will say, I absolutely deserve them.”
Genevieve fought an odd urge to laugh.
“This cottage has leaks in the roof.” She pointed to a large vase that sat in a corner of the room. “My mother is accustomed to filling her vases with flowers, not dirty water.”
“Cornish water is clean,” the duke said. “The best water you can find.”
A Duke Never Forgets (The Duke Hunters Club, #3) Page 2