Cocky Mister: A Regency Cocky Gents Book

by Annabelle Anders

  “Cards at White’s. Tattersalls. Lively political discussions.”

  Although not the answers she was hoping for, she now knew a few more things about him.

  “You enjoy riding?” This was something they could do together. She loved riding. She loved animals in general. Her gaze shifted to the cat on the bench—most animals.

  “Immensely.” He smiled at this. “And you?”

  “Indeed. I enjoy riding my horse, Misty, more than almost anything when I’m at Westerley Crossings.”

  “Ah, she sounds like a horse you named as a child. She is gentle?”

  “She is. But spirited enough to make riding her interesting. I’ve had her since I was seven.”

  “Once we’re settled at Bowcliff, I’ll request your brother transport her to my estate for you. Would you like that, my dear?”

  He might be lofty, but he did care for her. And his appreciation for horses was reassuring. It was something they would have in common going forward.

  Culpepper’s beringed hand settled on the cat, stroking behind its ears without seeming to be aware of it, and then hooking his finger through the cat’s collar. At least she thought it was a cat. Without any hair, it just as easily could have been a squirrel—or a very large rat.

  “Meow.” The cat glared at her as though reading her mind and finding her thoughts offensive. Touché.

  “What is your cat’s name?” At the risk of being a chatterbox, talking put her at ease. It always had.

  “He is Archimedes.”

  She had to laugh at that. Because the one thing she knew about Archimedes, the mathematician, aside from the fact that his discoveries had something or other to do with circles, was the legend that the man had been taking a bath when he’d had his mathematical epiphany and then gone running through the streets naked, shouting, “Eureka.”

  “Archimedes is hardly deserving of your laughter. The name imparts dignity. There is an elegance to his smooth symmetry.” Culpepper stroked the cat’s side. “He is a most valuable animal.”

  “So he is not called Archimedes because he is naked?”

  “I beg of you not to be vulgar.” Culpepper sent her a frown. Surely, he was teasing her. “Archimedes is not… unclothed, Lady Tabetha. He is hairless. And as I said, rare and valuable. I hope to turn a considerable profit once we’ve returned to London.”

  “You’re going to… sell him?”

  “Like all animals, he is an investment. I suppose this is not something a young lady such as yourself can comprehend. I imagine you see him as a pet, something to shower affection on until you have your own human child to nurture.”

  “But…” As ill-mannered as the cat was, Archimedes was still a living being and deserved to be treated as something more than a possession.

  He was right. She did not understand.

  “Does he bite?” She leaned forward but the duke held out one hand, as though to stop her.

  “He isn’t comfortable around strangers. Best not become attached, anyhow.” He grimaced and then glanced up at her “I’d hate for him to mar your lovely complexion with his claws.”

  Tabetha squirmed and touched her fingertips to her hair. Getting to know this man was going to take more effort than she’d imagined. She soldiered on. “Archimedes. It is quite the mouthful. Do you ever call him Archie?”

  “Archie is a name befitting a servant, Lady Tabetha.”

  One of her brother’s outriders was named Archie. Was Culpepper inferring that his cat was more valuable than a servant?

  Of course not. He simply valued his cat.

  And besides, he is a duke, she reminded herself. Such an arrogant outlook on life was to be expected. He’d been taught his cool demeanor since birth. It’s how dukes are raised.

  And unlike his cat, he more than tolerated her. He esteemed and appreciated her. He’d said so, hadn’t he?

  Tabetha gave up on her attempts at conversation—for now. Firstly, because he hadn’t seemed to appreciate them. Secondly, because she wasn’t all that versed on card games or politics, and thirdly, because his responses were less than reassuring.

  Likely, it was nerves.

  Thanks to Stone Spencer for planting his blasted seeds of doubt, she had a few nerves of her own.

  She shivered and directed her attention out the window again. Although her family was going to be miffed that she’d eloped, her mother would be ecstatic to have a duchess for a daughter.

  Her Grace.

  The Duchess of Culpepper.

  Her mind drifted back several years, to just before her fifth birthday. After waking from a terrifying nightmare about a wild boar attacking her in the fields, she’d sat shivering in her bed, trying to shake the images of his filthy sharp teeth sinking into her, when the door opened and her father had entered, illuminating the nursery with the soft light of the single taper he’d brought with him.

  “Was it that nasty boar again, Poppet?” He’d been wearing a heavy dressing gown over his nightshirt and soft leather slippers on his feet. He’d smelled of bergamot and cinnamon. Sometimes, when she was at home, at Westerley Crossings, she’d open one of his old trunks and breathe in that smell, and if she concentrated very hard, she could almost imagine he was there with her.

  She didn’t open it up often though, fearful that his scent would escape and one day, it wouldn’t be there at all. It would be gone forever. If she concentrated very hard, she could summon the memory without it.

  He’d lifted her off the bed and carried her over to their favorite chair in the nursery. It had been a rocking chair, mostly for babies. It was one of the last times he’d ever sat and rocked her like that.

  “I’ll never let anything hurt my princess,” he’d said, stroking her hair. He’d felt warm and strong and safe.

  “I’m not a princess, Daddy.” It had been a joke between them.

  “Then you’ll be my little duchess,” he’d said. “The prettiest duchess in all of England.”

  “Do boars chase duchesses?”

  “Not my duchess,” he’d answered.

  “Do I have to marry a duke when I grow up?” At such a very young age, she’d already grasped the concept of her duty as a daughter.

  He’d chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath her cheek. “I imagine so, Poppet.”

  She’d buried her head in his neck, not wanting to think about ever leaving her father. Not wanting to think about her dream.

  “I won’t let anything hurt my little duchess.”

  The memory grew dim, then, and she realized she had probably fallen asleep in his arms.

  The carriage hit a bump, and Tabetha grasped the leather strap over the window. This vehicle wasn’t as well-sprung as her brother’s, which was somewhat surprising, since Culpepper was a duke and her brother only an earl. Tabetha’s heart fluttered nervously.

  He was going to have to meet with Westerley eventually, in order to collect her dowry. Perhaps afterward, they would purchase a newer model.

  She wondered what Bowcliff Heights was like. She could decorate it to her liking. She would make it into a home, her home, a safe place where they would raise their little ducal children.

  “Sexual compatibility is something all young women ought to consider before consenting to marry—even grasping little chits like you.” If she ever saw Stone Spencer again, she was going to try much harder to land her punch so that she could actually slam her fist into that impertinent mouth of his.

  “Because mark my words—you will be expected to lie with him. He’s not only going to require an heir but a spare as well.”

  Having him in her head was almost worse than having him trailing her around all of Mayfair.

  And Culpepper had kissed her. Twice! In all honesty, fireworks hadn’t exploded in her mind, but the kisses hadn’t been repulsive.

  She had liked them. Yes. She’d liked them.

  Culpepper’s head was tipped back again. His eyes were closed but his mouth had fallen open, exhaling soft snoring sounds.r />
  She squirmed again and then smoothed her sleeves. Archimedes opened his eyes to watch her suspiciously—as though she was the usurper here.

  She met and held the feline’s pale blue gaze, determined not to be cowed by something as ridiculous as a naked cat.

  He was as stubborn as she was.

  Locked in a staring war, she surreptitiously searched around beside her until her hand landed on her reticule. Untying it without looking, she ever so carefully removed one of the biscuits stored there on the off chance that she might need one.

  She pinched a section off for Archie but, knowing it would be sweet, buttery, and crumbly, she broke off a larger piece for herself before storing it away again.

  A lady never knew when she was going to require the bolstering that only a sweet biscuit could provide.

  She raised one brow for the cat’s benefit, challenging him in her mind.

  Ignore me now, you little puss.

  Sure enough, when she offered the small piece in the palm of her hand, the cat perked right up. “Here kitty, kitty,” she whispered.

  Archie’s eyes flicked from her hand to her face and then back to her hand again. It was rather satisfying when he finally stretched forward and swiped it, chewing greedily. Within ten seconds, he’d eaten his portion and was licking his lips.

  If only Culpepper could be dealt with so easily.

  Tabetha pressed her forehead against the window and then grimaced when the carriage jerked. How was it possible that they’d driven across every rock and hole in this Godforsaken road between London and Scotland?

  The duke frowned across from her, keeping his eyes closed.

  He’d begun doing that late on the second day of the drive—pretending to be asleep, that was. She’d been offended, at first, but as the miles passed, found herself feeling almost grateful. Conversation between the two of them did not come easily. His answers were short and dismissive until he sensed her unrest. Then he’d smile at her cajolingly, offer her compliments, and paint rosy pictures of their future—vague and undetailed rosy pictures, punctuated with far too many perhapses and maybes.

  Although she’d spent hours and hours in her betrothed’s company, four days to be exact, by the time their carriage neared the small Scottish town of Gretna Green, she still hadn’t figured him out.

  And the harder she tried, the more reticent he became.

  Excepting, of course, when she made any mention of her dowry. He was similar to his cat in this aspect, as Archie was only interested in her when she brought out a tantalizing treat.

  She’d met with even less success when they’d stopped at various inns.

  He had dined privately with her, of course, and been pleasant enough but ignored her hints that they walk outside together before retiring to their separate chambers. She had thought a moonlight stroll might be romantic. She’d hope he would take such an opportunity to give her some indication of his affection. Perhaps they could try kissing again, renew some of the ardor he’d shown her on the night he’d proposed.

  But on each occasion, he’d declined. He’d insisted that he had some reading to do. Surely, she wanted time to herself, as well?

  But then, this morning, she’d learned he had participated in a high stakes card game the night before. He’d not been reading at all. She only knew because she’d overheard two maids chatting in the corridor outside her room.

  Had he lied or simply changed his mind?

  It won’t be worth it, you know.

  But she had already made her decision. She’d run away with Culpepper—alone, for heaven’s sake! To Gretna Green!

  If she didn’t follow through, if she were to cry off now, she’d lose all hope of garnering any decent offers, let alone an offer from a different duke.

  This was her one chance. When she’d agreed to this elopement, she’d gone all-in. This was her only opportunity to become the duchess she needed to be.

  Tabetha raised her fingers to her mouth and barely had the wherewithal to keep from biting at her nails.

  If she changed her mind, Westerley would forgive her, as would her mother. Eventually.

  Felicity, as her closest friend, would be nice enough about it, but both her and Bethany would say they’d told her so.

  Other’s would be much harsher.

  And she had done this to herself! Foolish, foolish Tabetha!

  She’d been alone with the duke for three nights and four days! Not that she’d come even close to losing her innocence! That wouldn’t matter to the members of the ton. She would be good and ruined forever.

  She swallowed hard. Cold feet. That was all this was—a particularly gripping case of arctic, frost-bitten, iced-over cold feet.

  “My mother’s going to want to host a ball for us, upon our return,” she said into the quiet of the carriage.

  He opened one eye. “Perhaps next year. Dear Elaina’s memory, you know.”

  Tabetha exhaled. The woman had been dead for over a year. And yes, their marriage was rushed, but what about her feelings? She wasn’t the dead one, after all!

  A ball wouldn’t be asking too much. In fact, it would be expected.

  “I don’t think anyone will think poorly of us for it,” she tried again.

  “We’ll see.”

  Tabetha exhaled a deep breath. Jostled, ignored, wrinkled, and unkempt, her enthusiasm for this marriage was diminishing all too quickly.

  You’re doing the right thing, Tabetha. This is what you want.

  She would have fared better, she conceded, if she’d had Emily. Not only could her maid have assisted in dressing her and pressing her gowns, not to mention brushing and styling her hair, but then Tabetha wouldn’t have found herself feeling so lonely.

  Likely that was all there was to these misgivings. In addition to her cold feet, she was unusually rumpled, putting her at sixes and sevens, and she was homesick.

  The carriage hit the twenty-thousandth hole in the road, and she bounced on the seat that by now felt like it was made of granite. When she released the leather strap, she raised a perfumed handkerchief to her nostrils. Culpepper’s valet, in addition to a few other servants, rode behind them in a separate conveyance, and she wondered if he’d spilled the entire bottle of the duke’s cologne on him this morning.

  She’d attempted to open one of the windows but Culpepper had stopped her. “Do you want Archimedes jumping out?” He’d frowned.

  He did a lot of that—frowning, pouting… scowling.

  She drew her feet onto the seat and dropped her forehead onto her knees, hugging them at the same time.

  This is the right choice, she reassured herself. I’m going to be a duchess, and Papa’s death will not have been in vain.

  She closed her eyes and drifted into a restless sleep.

  “Wake up, Lady Tabetha.” Culpepper’s voice jerked her out of disjointed dreams. “I’ve instructed my driver to stop at the blacksmith’s first thing.”

  Having gone several hours without a word from him, his sudden attentiveness had Tabetha sitting up straight.

  “But…” Tabetha blinked in confusion, gesturing at her gown. “I need to wash up and change first, if you don’t mind.” Was that what she wanted, or was her request an excuse to put it off? “And I need to eat something.” Yes. They should definitely get something to eat first. And a good night’s sleep would not be remiss.

  “The ceremony won’t take long. You can eat afterward. No need to change. You look perfectly lovely as you are.”

  Unease seeped through Tabetha as she stared across the cramped and musty enclosure. The interior of this carriage was beginning to feel like a prison—a prison of her own making.

  One that she’d willingly climbed into. A tight squeezing prevented her from taking in a normal breath.

  Before she could utter another protest or her consent, the carriage drew to a halt with a jerk. Tabetha raised one hand to her abdomen, which was suddenly queasy, as though the insides of her person had continued traveling do
wn the road.

  The door flew open but the cool air that rushed in provided only a moment of relief. Because the duke’s now-familiar perfume was immediately replaced with the distinct smell of burning coal and molten iron.

  “You’re welcome to look around for a privy. Meet me inside when you’re ready.” With a tight smile and a gentle pat on her knee, Culpepper ducked his head, climbed out of the carriage, and disappeared inside to presumably make arrangements with one of the anvil priests.

  Archie chose that moment to leap onto the floor and then up to the bench beside her.

  “Of course, now you decide that you like me,” she muttered, her voice sounding thready and dry—not because she was thirsty but because the unease she’d experienced a moment before had manifested into outright horror.

  She had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

  She couldn’t go through with this.

  Chapter 4

  My Hero

  Whereas Stone and Creighton ought to have easily overtaken the duke’s entourage, a series of unforeseeable catastrophes ensured they stayed at least a day behind. If, that was, the duke had even taken this road.

  Barely outside of London, one of Westerley’s matched pair threw a shoe, and it had taken Stone and his manservant nearly half an hour to locate the damn thing. After determining the hoof itself wasn’t injured, they’d had to walk for two miles before locating an establishment where the shoe could be reattached.

  Circumstances only went downhill after that when a day later, Chaswick’s “baby” struck a hole, landing at just the perfect angle to snap a wheel in two. Both Stone and Creighton managed to leap off before riding into an adjacent gully, but the evasive maneuver had left his outrider with a twisted ankle.

  Unable to affect anything more than a temporary repair, to either the vehicle or mangled joint, they lost even more time hobbling along until coming across the village of Ramstail Quarry. Once there, Stone had reluctantly decided to forsake both Westerley’s baby and Creighton at the Pig and Hen taproom and inn, where hopefully, by the time he returned, the former would be repaired and the latter would be healed. He couldn’t very well force the man to ride the rest of the way to Scotland with his ankle twice its normal size, now could he?