A Duke Never Forgets (The Duke Hunters Club, #3)

by Blythe, Bianca

  Genevieve blinked, then horror moved through her. Had the duke remembered everything, then bolted from the cottage, neglecting to say goodbye in favor of a visit to the magistrate? Genevieve lurched from her bed, not even wincing when her feet touched the cold wooden floor panels and not the thoughtfully positioned rug intended to lessen the impact of sudden temperature changes.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Mama said crossly. “But he was speaking about duty and doing something painful... then he disappeared. Oh, dear. I wasn’t certain what he meant. But now the door to his room is open—and empty. Perhaps he remembered and went to the magistrate.”

  “Perhaps he went on a walk,” Genevieve said hopefully. “That must be the case. Don’t worry, Mama. No doubt, he’ll return soon.”

  She gave a bright smile, but her lips felt tight, as if even they didn’t believe her.

  “Perhaps,” Mama said. “Though that would be foolish. The man is weaker. He shouldn’t be walking. The man is accident-prone.”

  “He had a single accident,” Genevieve said. “An accident in years of swimming.”

  “It could be a new habit.”

  “I’m certain he won’t do anything foolish. Besides, the man was quite athletic.”

  Mama frowned. “You noticed his muscles.”

  The back of Genevieve’s neck prickled uncomfortably, as did her brow. Then she frowned. “Well, you noticed them too.”

  “I would have to be blind not to,” Mama grumbled. “No man needs so many muscles on his stomach. Quite unseemly.”

  “Mama, why were you looking at his stomach?” Genevieve asked sternly.

  “Anyway, it’s entirely unimportant. The important thing is that you must go after him. Why, he might get hurt. Injured! The only thing worse than the duke learning we’ve given him an assumed name is for another person to learn that we gave him an assumed death shortly before he was found dead.”

  “You are morbid, Mama.”

  Mama raised her chin. “It seems warranted. Strange things are happening here.”

  “Are you considering returning to the Lake District?”

  Mama’s face crumpled, and Genevieve regretted her statement. Obviously, they couldn’t return. Not yet. They simply had to make certain the duke didn’t destroy them.

  “But there’s more sea here,” Genevieve said, hoping to see Mama look less distressed.

  “Salty water is quite special,” Mama said, her voice wobbling.

  “Indeed,” Genevieve nodded, even though she personally thought there were potential benefits to living by a lake. The water was drinkable, for instance. And one could venture into it without too much fear that one would be promptly smashed into a rock.

  She sighed.

  Apparently, the latter occurrence was rare.

  This wasn’t the time to muse over the wonders of their former home. Mama was right: she should see what the duke was doing.

  Genevieve tore off her gown, and Mama assisted her into her shift and a dress. Genevieve brushed her hair, then Mama coughed and pinned it into a quick bun.

  “I know you want to look lovely, but it’s not important. Time is.”

  “I wasn’t eager to look pretty especially,” Genevieve said, conscious that her voice might have had an odd tone of defensiveness that generally was not present.

  Genevieve hurried down the stairs, grabbed her bonnet, and exited the house. She tied her bonnet quickly.

  It occurred to her that the duke might truly harm himself, and Genevieve quickened her steps. She surveyed the landscape, wondering where a handsome duke might wander.

  She hurried to the beach, as if some siren were placed there to intrigue the ocean obsessed.

  When she arrived, there was no attractive mermaid curled on one of the rocks, and no distracted duke.

  The air was still, and the waves that swept onto the shore did so at a languid, contented pace. The bright sun sparkled over the azure water, and for a moment, it seemed ridiculous to imagine this had been the site of any unhappiness. For a moment, she almost understood why the duke had been so adamant on having his cottage. It was easy to imagine him dreaming about this location. It was easy to imagine anyone dreaming about this location.

  Genevieve sighed.

  He wasn’t here.

  Which meant he could be...anywhere.

  Genevieve hurried to the cottage and ascertained the duke hadn’t wandered inside when she was gone.

  A thought occurred to her, and she decided to check the horses. One of them was missing.

  She wondered whether her mother had had anyone pack a sidesaddle. Somehow, she doubted it. It would be even less likely for her mother to have packed a regular saddle.

  For a moment, she contemplated dragging the horse to the steps beside the cottage and mounting him bareback. She dismissed the idea quickly. That was the sort of thing that would lead to a broken bone and a broken reputation.

  Instead, Genevieve hurried down the road. Her blue dress had seemed suitable this morning, given its abilities to hide stains, but now heat gathered to it. No mud was on this lane, and dust moved into the air as she hurried in an unladylike manner over the road. She craned her neck for the duke, for his horse, for any sign.

  Nothing.

  She continued onward, moving her gaze along the horizon, lest she see his collapsed body.

  Finally, horses’ hooves sounded, and she turned around.

  “Miss Potter,” a cheerful voice said. “Or should I say... Mrs. Seagull?”

  Genevieve turned around.

  Mr. Ackley grinned at her from a cart. “You’re walking quite athletically.”

  “I’m rather athletic,” Genevieve said.

  Mr. Ackley scrutinized her. “Not the dress I would have chosen for an excursion. Would you care for a ride, Mrs. Seagull?”

  Genevieve’s heart pounded. She’d been pleased to hear the sound of horses, but she was now uncertain.

  “Come in, Mrs. Seagull. I can give you a ride.”

  Genevieve scrunched up her lips. “I’m not certain it’s appropriate.”

  The vicar emitted a large chuckle. “You flatter me, my dear. I’m married, and so are you.”

  Right.

  She was married.

  Genevieve climbed into the carriage, and Mr. Ackley jostled the reins. The carriage swept through the idyllic countryside. Verdant fields surrounded them, and soon the ocean waves could no longer be heard.

  “I’d hoped you might be interested in my son,” Mr. Ackley admitted.

  “Oh?” Genevieve asked blandly, as if the vicar were stating a preference for Brussels sprouts over broccoli, an error in taste, but not one that ultimately mattered much.

  “I find it somewhat odd you didn’t mention your marital status.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Why didn’t you mention it?” Mr. Ackley asked.

  “I—”

  “And why wasn’t Mr. Seagull traveling with you?”

  Genevieve tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Nervousness moved through her.

  “He—er—was on a business.”

  “Ah. What does he do?”

  “He’s a merchant,” Genevieve lied.

  Mr. Ackley narrowed his eyes. “Not rare for someone involved in business.”

  “Perhaps not,” Genevieve said, using rather more energy than the task demanded. She laughed, but the vicar’s face did not relax its attention on her.

  “You seem uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t like to talk about myself,” Genevieve said finally, hoping he would take that more as a sign of shyness than suspicion-worthiness.

  Mr. Ackley scrunched up his lips, and for a moment, Genevieve thought he would ask her more questions about her husband’s profession. Instead, he exhaled. “Now where did you want to go?”

  The question was a decidedly good one, though not one that she wanted to compliment him on. Explaining that she was searching for her amnesiac faux husband was
unlikely to be received well. The man might decide to simply drive her to the magistrate, or perhaps, given his vocation, to the nearest church to pray.

  Neither option appealed to Genevieve. The important thing was to find Sebastian.

  “I simply wanted to see this area,” Genevieve said. “Since I’ve never been here before.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Ackley frowned, perhaps regretting rescuing an aimless ambler rather than someone in need of going someplace.

  Genevieve did need to go someplace... She simply didn’t know the location.

  “I—er—was hoping to find my husband.”

  “He’s gone?” Mr. Ackley widened his eyes.

  “His horse was missing. He must have decided to ride it.”

  “In his condition? A horse?” Mr. Ackley shook his head with wonder.

  “He really is much improved.”

  “Then he has the constitution of an ox. Were I to fall and hurt my head, I would be out of commission for months.” There was an odd pride in Mr. Ackley’s voice, as if he’d decided the chief component of a good body was its delicacy.

  Mr. Ackley hurried his horses, and after sending him a confused look, as if wondering whether he might have decided to rob a bank, they complied. The horses eased into a fast trot, and the chaise moved violently over the road.

  Genevieve scanned the surroundings for the duke.

  Mr. Ackley frowned, furrowed his brow, then pointed toward a farm. “Isn’t that your husband?”

  Genevieve opened her mouth, prepared to reply in the negative.

  The duke had nothing to do with that farm, after all.

  He didn’t know anybody in this region.

  But that man certainly looked like the duke.

  If the duke ever decided to go without his cravat, without his tailcoat, and without his shirt.

  His muscles gleamed under the sunshine, rippling in an interesting manner. Genevieve’s throat dried.

  “Is there a reason your husband is not wearing a shirt?” Mr. Ackley asked.

  “He must be warm,” Genevieve said. “After all, I’m warm.”

  Mr. Ackley sent her a horrified glance, as if he half-expected her to take off her dress in spousal sympathy.

  “I mean, you’re probably also warm,” Genevieve said.

  “I refuse to take off my shirt,” Mr. Ackley said stiffly.

  Heavens.

  The duke was ploughing a field. Even the most eccentric of aristocrats must shy away from farm work, preferring to utilize their eccentricity to memorize obscure texts, master forgotten languages, and seek to mirror Beau Brummel’s style. An athletic aristocrat might put extra energy toward digging in the optimistic hope of finding lost treasures or mapping new territory, gun in hand to ward off any angry natives, or simply sailing the seven seas in expensive, sumptuous ships.

  But no aristocrat, even one given to eccentricity and athleticism, was known to plough a field.

  Of course, the duke did not know he was a duke.

  “I need to stop him!” Genevieve shrieked. “Stop the chaise!”

  “We’ve halted,” Mr. Ackley said dryly.

  “Thank you!” Genevieve nearly tumbled from it.

  “Do you want me to wait?” Mr. Ackley asked. “Because I have an entire parish to manage.”

  “No, no,” Genevieve said quickly.

  The duke had taken the horse. She could get him back home on it.

  She didn’t want Mr. Ackley to have any more reason to be suspicious. A man who spent his days traveling from parish member to parish member might have the propensity to gossip. There was only so much enthusiasm one could generate for a pot of tea and crustless sandwiches.

  Genevieve refused to take any chances.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ackley!” She gave what she hoped was a dignified wave, though she suspected it might have an unwelcome brevity, then she scampered toward the duke.

  A fence bordered the road, presumably so adventurous cattle and sheep did not fulfill any latent desires for exploration, but she clambered over it quickly. Perhaps the action was somewhat undignified. No one really should see her drawers.

  Still, this was an emergency.

  She couldn’t have the duke ploughing a field. That was the sort of action he was unlikely to forgive. Besides, why on earth was he ploughing a field? She was certain that this farmland didn’t come with the cottage, and there were other workers here.

  “Stop! Stop!” Genevieve raced over the field; conscious her shoes were sinking into the rich dark dirt. She’d have to spend the evening attempting to clean them. It didn’t matter. It was more important to get to him.

  A few farmhands turned to her, shocked expressions on their faces.

  “Stop!” she called again, waving her arms in the duke’s direction. “Over here.”

  Her voice reached its highest peak, but it had never been strong. After a few dreadful voice lessons, her instructor had quit and informed her mother that any suitors would be more impressed if Genevieve didn’t ruin her reputation with an attempt at music. Unlike her friends, Genevieve had never excelled at a particular subject, managing to perform satisfactorily in most things, but never shine, never sparkle. Though many women adored music, Genevieve possessed no gifts. Mama had quickly handed Genevieve needlepoint to do instead, and Genevieve was reduced to spending her time replicating flowers in geometrically arranged crisscrosses.

  No doubt, the duke simply couldn’t hear her. She sighed, gritted her teeth, then continued through the field.

  “Young lady,” a deep, booming voice interrupted her thoughts.

  The sound didn’t derive from the duke, and she blinked, then turned her head, scanning the various farm laborers.

  “Here,” a voice grumbled.

  Genevieve turned her head further.

  A short red-faced man with the heavyset frame of a man prone to celebratory meals and celebratory ales scowled at her. “You are on my land. Get out of here.” The man waved his arms about. “This is my property, and you’re destroying my field. I don’t need footprints all over it, even tiny ones.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Leave.” The man jerked his thumb.

  Genevieve swallowed hard. But if the man wanted her to leave, he certainly wanted the duke to leave.

  “Very well.” Genevieve nodded rapidly, nervousness thrumming through her. “I’ll just get my husband.”

  The word husband came lightly on her tongue. It shouldn’t feel so natural, and she blinked.

  The man’s face turned purple. “Leave. Now.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SUN DANCED OVER the dark brown fields, and Sebastian inhaled the fresh air. His horse moved over the soil, grunting occasionally. Evidently, he was more accustomed to dragging an expensive chaise around Cornwall than a plow.

  “This is your new life,” he told his horse. “You’ll get accustomed to this, I promise. It’s less boring than lingering in the garden.”

  A commotion sounded, and one of the field hands pointed. “Some crazy woman has got into the field.”

  Sebastian turned and looked.

  Then he saw her: his goddess.

  His heart swelled. Genevieve looked stunning. She always looked stunning, but now her hair had come undone, and even though her bonnet was covering much of it, long, lovely blond curls rippled down her delicate, divine back.

  He waved. “Genevieve! Genevieve!”

  She wasn’t striding toward him, and he frowned. She seemed to be engaged in conversation with his new boss, a man who seemed quite occupied with waving his arms. Perhaps he was boasting about the size of his field. Sebastian had been happy to find work so near his home. To think that he’d lived here all this time and never once thought to work here. No doubt, he’d fed and brushed his horses each day, taking them on the occasional gentle amble or more athletic trot.

  His new boss’s face was becoming an interesting puce shade, and Sebastian stared. Was it possible he was yelling? The sound vanished in
the blustery wind, but Sebastian frowned. This was not good, not good at all.

  “Come on, Pegasus. We’re going to get her.” He guided his horse toward Genevieve. “Hurry up!”

  His horse moved obediently toward Genevieve, dragging his plow behind him.

  “No! No!” One of his new colleagues, a fellow farmhand, waved his arms. “Stop!”

  Sebastian frowned.

  “You’re destroying the lines,” the man shouted. “Williams won’t like it!”

  “Ah. I understand now.”

  The man’s shoulders relaxed, and he lowered his arms.

  “But I don’t care.” Sebastian rustled his reins, so Pegasus lurched forward and moved across the neatly formed lines of the field with renewed vigor.

  Disappointment and confusion shot over the man’s face. Obviously, his colleague had never met Genevieve. If he had, he would never stand for the man insulting her. That much was clear.

  “What are you doing, Seagull?” Mr. Williams bellowed.

  “Just thought I’d join the conversation you were having with my wife,” Sebastian said lightly.

  Evidently, the words did not ease Mr. Williams’ irritation. His eyebrows lurched upward, and he formed fists with his hands.

  “Your wife is disrupting the plowing. You are disrupting the plowing.” The man’s knuckles grew white.

  “I-I’m sorry, sir,” Genevieve stammered. Her cheeks had turned an appealingly pink color, though Sebastian despised the manner in which she quivered. “I didn’t mean to do any harm.”

  “Hmph. I suppose you didn’t do as much harm as this fellow here.” Mr. Williams jerked his thumb in the direction of Sebastian, then returned his glower to Genevieve. “I want you out of this field at once.”

  “Very well.” Genevieve nodded. “I promise.” She hesitated. “I did though want to speak with my husband.”

  Mr. Williams emitted a noisy sigh, as if he were experimenting with the potential of his throat to emit tornadoes.

  “As for you—” Mr. Williams turned back to Sebastian. “Get back to work. And don’t have this silly woman coming back here.”

  “That woman is my wife,” Sebastian said.

  “Still makes her silly. There are much worse words I could be calling her.”