When to Engage an Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Er, yes.” Jane looked at Lord Evans—the evil man was smirking. They’d both stood to greet Mrs. Hutting, so Jane couldn’t administer a swift kick to the earl’s shins.

  “I assume the duke is upstairs?”

  “Yes, madam,” Lord Evans said.

  Mrs. Hutting smiled. “It is wonderful that that dreadful curse is no longer hanging over his head—and Cat’s head as well. I’ll go up and see how they’re doing. If you’ll excuse me?”

  Poppy jumped down and went over to rub against Mrs. Hutting’s ankles.

  “Are you coming, too, Poppy? You’ll be careful around the baby, I hope.”

  “Merrow.”

  Mrs. Hutting must have taken that for assent—not that she could easily keep Poppy from following her in any event—because she and Poppy left together in apparent harmony.

  They listened to Mrs. Hutting’s feet climb the stairs, and then Lord Evans looked at Jane. “Might I have some more tea, Miss Wilkinson? It really is quite extraordinary.”

  “Very funny.” She poured more brandy into his cup and then, somewhat recklessly, added more to hers.

  “If you’ll remember, I told you your teacup subterfuge would work to your advantage.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “And you scoffed at me.”

  “It’s not a subterfuge. And if Mrs. Hutting hadn’t been distracted, she’d likely have noticed the brandy bottle and put two and two together. Now, about your—”

  “Alex! Jane!” The duke bounded into the room, grinning so widely Jane blinked. His joy was almost tangible.

  She’d never thought he looked older than his age, but now that the burden of the curse had fallen from him, he looked much, much younger.

  He gripped Lord Evans’s hand and they pounded each other on the back, proper British restraint thrown out the window. Lord Evans was facing away from her, but she could see the duke’s expression.

  The emotion it revealed made her own eyes sting and a lump form in her throat.

  Then the men separated and the duke turned to her.

  “Miss Wilkinson—Jane—thank you for all you did for Catherine today.” He was still smiling broadly and looked as if he might be thinking of hugging her, so she stepped back out of reach. “I can never repay you for taking care of my wife until her mother arrived.”

  “Oh, well, as to that, Your Grace, I wish I could say I’d done anything to merit your thanks, but I really only just stood around taking up space. Poppy did as much as I did.”

  Poppy trotted into the room and jumped back onto the table. She looked quite proud of herself . . . but then she was a cat. She always looked proud of herself.

  “Please, call me Marcus. You are one of Catherine’s closest friends, after all.”

  “Very well, Your G—Marcus.” Using the duke’s Christian name felt too familiar—and she’d rather keep her distance at the moment. There was far too much emotion in the room for her comfort.

  “I’m surprised to see you downstairs, Marcus,” Lord Evans said. “I didn’t think anything would separate you from your wife and son.” The earl grinned. “Care for a spot of tea?”

  “Tea? No tha—”

  The earl held up the brandy bottle. “It’s a very special sort.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, yes, I’ll take some.”

  Jane fetched another teacup and gave it to Lord Evans to fill with brandy.

  “As to why I am here,” the duke said, “Mrs. Hutting shooed me out of the room so she could attend to Catherine’s and William’s, er”—he cleared his throat and flushed slightly—“needs.”

  “William?” Jane realized she’d never asked Cat what they planned to name their son.

  The duke nodded. “For Catherine’s father.” And then he grinned at Lord Evans. “William Nathaniel Alexander.”

  That provoked another round of emotional backslapping.

  “Here’s to a long and happy life for young William Nathaniel Alexander,” Lord Evans said once he and the duke were done. And then he added with a rather salacious grin, “May he have many brothers and sisters.”

  The duke laughed as they clinked teacups. “I think it will take a while for Catherine to agree to that.” He raised his cup to Jane. “If I ever doubted it, I do no longer: The female is definitely the stronger sex. From Catherine’s account, I would never wish to go through childbirth myself.”

  Jane couldn’t help it. She gave Lord Evans an “I told you so” look.

  “But I’m here not only because I was banished from Catherine’s room,” the duke continued. “I need to have a word with you both. Alex, Mrs. Hutting tells me the vicar has returned with the pony cart. Could I impose on you to take it to the castle? Theo will pick it up later from the stables.”

  “Of course I’ll take it”—Lord Evans pulled a face—“though I can’t say I’m looking forward to handling those ribbons.”

  The duke grinned. “I’m sure your reputation will survive the experience.”

  “It’s not my reputation I’m concerned about—it’s my bones and teeth. I observed that, er, equipage in motion when the vicar drove it off in search of you. ‘Rattletrap’ doesn’t begin to describe it. I suspect I’ll feel like I’ve traversed all of England when I finally reach the castle.”

  The duke nodded in acknowledgment of that truth. “You can see why Theo and I were so concerned when we discovered our very pregnant wives had gone off with it.” He turned to Jane.

  Lud! Here it comes.

  “Jane, Catherine tells me you’ve graciously agreed to turn the Spinster House over to us for the time being and move to the castle, so it seems exceptionally rude of me to subject you to the pony cart. If you prefer, Alex can send my coachman back to get you in a far more comfortable vehicle.”

  “That’s not necessary, Your—”

  The duke’s eyebrow rose.

  “M-Marcus. I’m not made of glass.” Nor am I pregnant.

  Oh Lord, I didn’t need that thought. Please don’t let me blush.

  She could almost hear the Almighty laughing at her. “I’ll go in the cart.”

  With Alex.

  Her skin turned a deeper shade of red.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alex poured himself another glass of brandy while he waited in the study for Jane to join him. Poppy lounged on one of the settees. The cat had jumped into the pony cart right before he’d driven out of the inn-yard and had planted her furry little arse on the bench between him and Jane.

  Not that Poppy’s wall-like presence had made any difference. He couldn’t very well apologize or have any sort of intelligent conversation when he felt like his brains were being shaken from his skull.

  He frowned at his brandy. He would broach the subject as soon as Jane put in an appearance. There was no one else at the castle but the servants, and they were off somewhere celebrating the end of the curse. He and Jane would not be interrupted—he glanced at the cat—unless Poppy did the interrupting.

  On the other hand, speaking of things now could lead to a certain awkwardness. They were alone and would be stuck here together until Miss Wilkinson could return to the Spinster House. Perhaps he should put the discussion off....

  No, if things got awkward, he could decamp to the inn. Or, well, the castle was very large. They could probably live in it for the short time they’d be here together without crossing paths.

  Oh, who the hell am I trying to fool? Things already are awkward.

  It would be best to try to clear the air now. And then, maybe, once he apologized and understood what had happened in the garden, perhaps then he would find out if Rachel was right, if Jane cared for him.

  I hope Rachel is right.

  He looked over at Poppy. “Couldn’t take young William’s crying, eh?” He sighed. “I don’t fault you. For such a tiny creature, he has an excellent pair of lungs.” And the quality of the sound itself was more effective than fingernails on slate for setting one’s teeth on edge and getting one’s heart—and head—pounding. He�
�d been very happy he hadn’t had to linger within earshot.

  The cat ignored him. She was too interested in sniffing the settee’s arm.

  “Do you approve?”

  Poppy spared him a look.

  “Hey, you’re lucky you weren’t here before Marcus married. I assure you, the duchess has done wonders. Got rid of all the uncomfortable, ugly, ancient furniture and replaced it with pieces that aren’t instruments of torture.”

  But she’d kept the portrait of the third duke—the first Cursed Duke.

  He walked over to examine the fellow in the old-fashioned garb. “Do you suppose he knows the curse is broken?”

  Poppy did not venture an opinion. If she had, Alex would know without a shadow of a doubt that he had drunk far more brandy than was good for him.

  He checked his watch. Where was Jane?

  The news of the baby’s birth had definitely set the castle at sixes and sevens. When Alex told Mr. Emmett, Marcus’s steward, the old man had thrown his arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder, quite soaking his coat, while Alex had patted him awkwardly on the back.

  And then the story had flown through the castle and likely the entire estate. Everyone had wanted to hear the details and have Alex confirm that, yes, he had indeed seen the baby and the duke in the same room at the same time, both breathing. One of the maids had worried that the duke’s real son had died and someone had substituted another child, so Jane had been compelled to admit she’d seen the baby, ah, emerge.

  She’d turned a very interesting shade of red at that.

  “I don’t believe there was a dry eye in the castle, Poppy.” He frowned. “Or that there’s now a sober head.” Because once the tears passed, the celebration began.

  He looked at his watch again. He’d assumed at least one footman would wait to imbibe long enough to lead Jane to the study, but perhaps that was a false assumption. “Do you think I should go in search of her?”

  Apparently, Poppy did. She jumped down and led the way, tail high, through a series of rooms and up the main staircase. The animal appeared to know exactly where she was going.

  “Are you part canine?”

  Poppy paused long enough to look back at him and sneeze with apparent disdain.

  “I meant that as a compliment. You seem to have remarkable tracking skills.” And I’m talking to a cat.

  Alex stopped, one foot on the next step. Good Lord! He was indeed losing his mind. There was little question of it now. He should just go back to the study, pour himself another glass of brandy, and wait. Miss Wilkinson would show up eventually.

  Or perhaps she’s hit upon a way to avoid me.

  His stomach suddenly felt filled with lead.

  Of course. Likely the woman had managed to get the attention of one of the servants and had had them bring up her supper so she could hide in her room. And here he’d been cooling his heels in the study for—

  “Merrow!”

  Poppy reclaimed his attention. She’d come back to him and was now eyeing his boots with malice. As she’d decorated Nate’s with her claw marks, he took note. He did not wish his footwear to suffer the same fate.

  “All right. I’m coming.”

  Poppy snapped her tail several times and hissed briefly, a clear warning that any further loitering would be dealt with severely, and then started back up the stairs.

  The oldest part of the castle had been built long before William the Conqueror set foot on English soil. The building was enlarged over the centuries—well, until Isabelle Dorring’s curse, when the Duke of Hart stopped visiting—with new sections added higgledy-piggledy. Now it resembled a very elaborate stone maze with a roof. It had taken Marcus, Nate, and Alex a few days to get their bearings.

  Poppy turned down a corridor Alex was certain he’d never seen before.

  “Surely Emmett didn’t assign Miss Wilkinson a room this far from civilization?”

  The cat did not venture an opinion on the matter.

  Several turns later, when Alex was wishing he’d had the forethought to mark his path so he could retrace it, they came to an intersection.

  “Which way now?”

  Poppy raised her face as if sniffing the air.

  Alex knew better than to say what he was thinking—he hoped her tracking skills were indeed as good as any hound’s.

  And then they heard a woman’s voice coming from the left.

  “Help!”

  He and Poppy exchanged a look. “That’s Jane.”

  They both broke into a run, pounding—well, Alex was pounding—down the corridor, around another corner—

  And there was Jane, standing next to a narrow window, looking pale and anxious—until she saw them. Then relief washed over her features and she smiled—and looked down at Poppy.

  “Oh, Poppy. I’m so happy to see you.” She knelt and buried her face in the cat’s fur.

  Aren’t you happy to see me?

  Alex realized rather painfully that he would much rather Jane bury her face in his chest than Poppy’s back.

  “What are you doing here?” All right, then. That had come out harsher than he’d intended.

  Miss Wilkinson looked up at him, and then gave Poppy one last stroke before standing. “I, er, thought I’d explore a little.”

  To put off meeting me in the study.

  The lead in his stomach got heavier.

  “I’ve not been to the castle before.”

  Did she expect him to believe that? “I thought the duchess was your good friend.”

  “She is. But she’s been busy, er”—Jane flushed—“being married.”

  Perhaps it was due to Jane’s heightened color, but an extremely inappropriate, deliciously graphic image of what “busy being married” entailed sprang full-blown into his thoughts. It involved this annoying, managing woman, a soft bed, and hopelessly twisted sheets.

  His unruly cock swelled with anticipation.

  He blinked and realized she was looking at him as if she expected some response. Apparently she’d been talking while he’d been lusting.

  “I’m afraid I was woolgathering.” Ha! If only he’d been engaged in something so boring. “I missed what you said.”

  And I hope to God I’m not blushing.

  He must be, because Miss Wilkinson gave him a wary look before repeating herself.

  “I’ve been busy, too, with my work at Randolph’s office and with the lending library.” She cleared her throat and looked down at Poppy. “I’ve started cataloging its books.”

  Poppy yawned.

  “It’s true the collection isn’t extensive,” she told Poppy, “but no one has ever sorted it out before. I found several very old copies of a treatise on rodent control.”

  Poppy stared at her. Alex sniggered.

  Miss Wilkinson lifted her chin. “Rodents can be a very serious problem.”

  “Which I’m sure Poppy can deal with quite well without recourse to a dusty tome on the subject.”

  “Well, of course. She’s a cat. And I expect having a few cats about is mentioned in the treatise.”

  “You expect? You haven’t perused this exciting find?”

  Miss Wilkinson scowled at him. “I didn’t say it was exciting. I’m not interested in rodent control. As you just pointed out, Poppy does an excellent job of keeping the Spinster House free of vermin. Isn’t that right, Poppy?”

  They both looked down to see if the cat concurred, but the cat was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s a problem.”

  Miss Wilkinson’s head snapped up and she stared at him. “What do you mean ‘that’s a problem’? What’s a problem?”

  “I was hoping Poppy would show us the way back.”

  She sucked in her breath. “You don’t know the way back?”

  “I’ve only been in the castle twice before, Miss Wilkinson, and I didn’t go wandering about either time.”

  She frowned, looking a bit offended. “I’m not one of the Boltwood sisters.
I wasn’t trying to stick my nose into cabinets, if that’s what you mean to infer.”

  “I don’t mean to infer anything. I know why you were wandering around up here—you wanted to avoid me.”

  The stricken look on her face told him he was correct.

  “Come along. Let’s see if we can find our way without Poppy’s help.”

  Clearly, if Miss Wilkinson had resorted to exploring the castle corridors to avoid him, Rachel was wrong. The interesting discussion he’d hoped to have concerning their future was not going to happen. They had no future. His instincts—and that of his female relatives—had failed him again.

  He’d find Miss Wilkinson’s room for her, apologize for taking liberties—mild liberties—with her in Diana’s garden, and wish her a happy life in the Spinster House. He didn’t see how he could avoid her completely unless he gave up his friendships with Marcus and Nate, but the discomfort and awkwardness would fade with time. His stomach wouldn’t always feel as if he’d swallowed a cannonball.

  Of course things would improve. In just a little over a month he’d be back among the ton and attending any number of balls and parties. He wished to go to support Bea on her come-out, but perhaps he’d find a woman to marry. Not to love. He was done with that nonsense. But to wed. A marriage of convenience.

  A debutante like Bea?

  The iron ball in his stomach heaved.

  No, he wouldn’t look at the young girls—that had been one of his many mistakes with Charlotte. He’d look for an older, more mature woman. There were always a few of that sort who either hadn’t taken or had delayed their come-outs for one reason or another. Or he might consider an impoverished companion. Or a young widow. Davenport had married a widow and that seemed to be working out very well. There was no rush. He would take his time.

  At the moment it felt as if any woman would do if he couldn’t have the prickly Spinster House spinster. He had to marry someone. He needed an heir. Many ton marriages were just such practical arrangements. The man got a son or two, the woman a home.

  Miss Wilkinson already had a home, so she had no need of a husband to clutter it up.

  He’d been walking as his unhappy thoughts rolled through him like noxious clouds, taking them round a number of corners and turns, hoping his sense of direction would get them back to the main part of the castle, but at the next intersection, he came to a complete stop. Nothing looked remotely familiar.