The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2)

by Meara Platt

  Felt nice. Too nice.

  He carefully slid out from her grasp, but instead of drawing away from the dangerous innocent, he allowed his fingers to drift over the glistening waves of her dark hair. So soft. Unable to resist, he buried his hand in her silken curls, caressing the long, thick strands that fell over her shoulders and down her back. Bloody hell. She felt nice.

  Too nice, he reminded himself again.

  He stopped, desperate to climb out of bed before he did something spectacularly foolish, such as pulling her down atop him and kissing her rosy, lightly parted lips into tomorrow. No, not just into tomorrow. Into next week. Perhaps into next month. No woman had ever held his interest longer than that. He preferred it that way. Easier to remain unattached. Easier to remain free of messy obligations.

  Perhaps that was why Dillie always referred to him as an idiot.

  He was one, but not for the reasons Dillie imagined. He was an idiot because he couldn’t seem to get her out of his thoughts. Going on two years now. No doubt because she, unlike all other women, found him completely unappealing. Where others would shamelessly proposition him, would flirt, swoon, scheme, or find any reason to gain his attention, Dillie usually cringed when she saw him coming.

  She was a challenge, a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed challenge. Where others succumbed, she resisted. But he knew better than to take up the gauntlet against Dillie. He wasn’t certain he could win. She was different. She was dangerous. One look at the girl and all blood drained from his head to amass in a hot pool between his thighs.

  He couldn’t think straight when his loins were on fire. Could any man?

  Unfortunately, Dillie managed to set him ablaze every time she looked at him. Didn’t have to be much of a look, just a glimpse was enough. Sometimes the mere sound of her voice got him hot. He even knew her scent, that refreshingly sweet trace of peach blossoms wafting in the air.

  When it came to Dillie, he was like a damn bloodhound, able to recognize her presence even amid the heavily perfumed odors that permeated a room. He didn’t know why the girl had that effect on him, for she wasn’t the sort of woman who usually gained his notice. He liked elegant, more worldly women. He usually sought out the married ones who were bored with their husbands, for such women were interested in mere dalliances and expected no promises.

  Dillie required faithfulness and heartfelt promises.

  Dillie demanded everlasting love.

  She disapproved of his scoundrel ways and never hesitated to tell him so. She didn’t give a fig that he was a rich-as-Croesus duke. She wasn’t impressed by his wealth or title.

  She wasn’t impressed by him.

  Ian moaned.

  Dillie must have heard him, for her eyes fluttered open. Those big, soft blue eyes that stole his breath away every time she looked at him.

  “Ian, you’re awake. Thank goodness.” She cast him a beautiful, openhearted smile.

  He closed his eyes and sank back against his pillow, drawing his hand away before she noticed that it had been buried in her luscious hair. “I feel like hell.”

  She laughed lightly. “You look like it, too.”

  “Ah, I knew I could count on you for compliments.” He opened one eye.

  Her smile faded and she began to nibble her lip. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.” As though to prove her point, she leaned forward and ran her knuckles along his chin, gently scraping them against his three-day growth of beard. “If it’s any consolation, you look wonderful for a man who’s spent that much time fighting at death’s door.”

  “Was I that bad?”

  She nodded. “Let me feel your forehead. You were running a very high fever.” She placed that same hand across his brow. “Oh, thank goodness. No longer hot.”

  He was hot. She wasn’t looking low enough.

  “Have you been by my side all this time?” Both his eyes were now open and trained on Dillie. Her morning gown was a simple gown of gray wool, its only adornment a velvet ribbon of a slightly darker gray trim at the sleeves. Her hair was long and loose—as he well knew, since he’d just run his feverish fingers through it. She had a sleepy look in her eyes, slightly tousled hair, and a smile as beautiful as a moonbeam.

  She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever set eyes upon.

  He wanted her badly... naked and in his bed.

  It was one thing to have those desires, but another thing altogether to act on them.

  “Yes, I’ve been beside you most of the time,” she replied, unaware of the depraved path of his thoughts. “Uncle George had to tend to that important patient of his, so he hasn’t been around much. He left me in charge of you. Fortunately, the stab wound to your side was the worst of it. And it was bad, if you wish to know the truth. The blade missed your vital organs by a hair’s breadth. You wouldn’t have pulled through otherwise.”

  The notion seemed to distress her. It felt odd that she should care whether he lived or died. No one in his family did.

  In truth, he didn’t either.

  “I never lost faith that you would survive. You’re strong. And Uncle George is the best doctor in all of England,” she said with noticeable pride. “He cleansed your wounds thoroughly and stitched you up. Your arms weren’t slashed as badly as we’d feared, and the stab wound to your leg wasn’t very deep.”

  She sounded efficient, as though she were taking inventory. Suddenly, she paused and there were tears glistening in her eyes.

  Surprised, he reached out to run his thumb along the thin trail of water now sliding down her cheek. He winced as a painful jolt shot from his fingers to his brow. He’d braced himself against the expected pain, but it hurt like blazes anyway. One of those assailants must have sliced through muscle. Perhaps cracked one of his ribs. The mere raising of his arm would not have caused him agony otherwise.

  No matter. Dillie was worth it.

  “How silly of me.” She shook her head and let out a delicate laugh. “I don’t know why I’m crying now that you’re better.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Disappointment?”

  Her smile faded. “How could you even think such a horrid thought? Of course I’m not disappointed. I would have been shattered if you’d died. In my bed, no less!”

  “Right. Nobody likes a dead duke in their bed.”

  She was frowning now, but made no move to remove his hand, which was once more caressing her cheek. Her blue eyes still shimmered with tears. “It would be especially difficult to explain away to the authorities.”

  He nodded. “Or to the patronesses at Almack’s. My death would have been quite the scandal, and certainly the ruination of you.”

  She tipped her head, turning into his hand so that he now cupped her chin. She didn’t notice, obviously distressed by his words. “Surely not my ruination.”

  “Dillie, nobody would have cared that you’d worked tirelessly to save my sorry life. All they would have noticed is that I’d departed this world in Dillie Farthingale’s bed.”

  “You’re simply being your cynical self, thinking the worst of your fellow man.”

  “And you’re thinking like a wide-eyed innocent. People will always disappoint you. The sooner you realize it, the better.”

  Her gaze turned tender. “Ian, who hurt you so badly to make you feel that way?”

  He laughed, and then winced as the effort sent more shooting pains up and down his body. “No one.” Everyone. “I was born this way.”

  “No you weren’t. Children aren’t born cynical.”

  “I’m a man now. I’m as manly as they come.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I suppose all the women you seduce tell you that.”

  “Breathlessly and often.” Damn, she had beautiful eyes. A soft, sky blue.

  “You aren’t as manly as you think.” She slipped away from him and rose to grab a clean cloth from a stack beside the basin of water on her nightstand. Grinning mischievously, she dipped it in the water and wrung it out. “I had to hold you down while Unc
le George treated your wounds. You cried like an infant the entire time. Waah, waah, just like a baby,” she teased, making a pretense of rubbing her eyes and sniffling like a child who’d fallen and scraped a knee. “Amos, our strongest footman, had to help me hold you down.”

  He laughed again, then winced again. “Good try, but not possible.”

  “How do you know?” She arched a delicate eyebrow. “You were barely conscious most of the time.”

  His merriment faded. “Dillie, you saw my body. These aren’t my first scars, and they’re not likely to be my last.”

  She returned to his side and set the cool, damp cloth over his forehead. She didn’t sit down, but remained standing and slightly turned away, as though suddenly troubled. “Very well. You didn’t cry out. Not even once,” she said in a whisper.

  “I know.” He’d shed his last tears at the age of four, spent every last one of them wishing... no matter, his life had been changed forever that day and he’d learned to endure.

  Were her eyes watering again? He didn’t want her to cry over him or feel anything for him beyond her usual disdain. “Where are my clothes? I have to get out of here.”

  She whirled to face him, her eyes wide in surprise. “The ones you wore are ruined. Your valet brought over several outfits. Choose whichever you like, but you’re not leaving here until Uncle George gives his approval.”

  “Nonsense. I’m fine.” He sat up and swallowed a howl as he tossed off his covers, swung around to the other side of the bed, and rose to his wobbly feet. Damn! That hurt!

  Dillie let out a gasp and clamped her hands over her eyes. “Ian, you idiot! Get back in bed. You’re naked!” Her cheeks were a hot, bright pink.

  “What?” He glanced down. No wonder he’d felt a sudden rush of cold air against his chest... and other parts. He was too unsteady to walk and too angry at his infirmity to get back into bed. He wasn’t a doddering old fool who needed porridge and bed rest. He was young, strong. He refused to think of himself as dazed and stupid, but that’s precisely what he was. He hadn’t meant to shock Dillie. She was a decent girl.

  Luscious and decent.

  Now that she’d seen his naked backside, for one crazed moment he considered turning around and—

  No, that would be an incredibly stupid move.

  Finding a pebble of sense, which happened to be the only thing rattling around in his foggy brain at the moment, he wrapped the peach coverlet securely around his waist and turned to face her.

  As he did so, he saw her fashion a peephole between her fingers. So the girl wasn’t a paragon of virtue after all. She wanted to see him naked. He grinned. “Like what you see?”

  She gasped and looked away. “I wasn’t staring at you. Not in that way. My only concern is to keep you from falling and slashing open your healing wounds. You’re an idiot. I hate you. Why can’t you behave?”

  Good question. One for which he had no answer. Well, he did have an answer, just not one she wanted to hear.

  “Find me my clothes.” He sank back onto the bed, ever careful to keep the covers about his waist. He was loath to admit he was dizzy and had almost fallen, just as she’d feared. He resolved to eat as hearty a meal as he could manage and then get dressed. Once he had regained his balance, he’d walk out on his own. No, not just walk. Run. His damn blood was pooling around his loins again. In another moment he’d be conspicuously hard and throbbing. “Why aren’t you married yet?”

  She let out a choking laugh. “I’d hit you if you weren’t already bruised over your entire body. None of your business. Why aren’t you married?”

  “Bachelorhood suits me fine.”

  “Good, because I have no intention of marrying you.”

  “I don’t recall asking you.”

  “You raised it. What made you think of marriage?” Suddenly, she gasped. “It’s that Chipping Way bachelor curse. No, no, no. It can’t be true!” She sounded pained. And scared.

  Not as scared as he suddenly was. What if the curse did prove true? “I don’t believe in it either.”

  “But you ran down my street. And now you’re worried that you inadvertently fell into the Chipping Way trap.” She sounded horrified. “For pity’s sake, why did you do it? There are a thousand streets in London. You could have chosen any of them. Why mine?”

  “It wasn’t intentional. I was running for my life, and you should have been back in Coniston. Don’t tell me you’re the superstitious sort. You can’t believe in that silly curse. Your sisters would have met and married their husbands no matter what. They fell in love. I’m not loveable. I’m a dissolute who intends to stay that way.”

  She paused to study him, her expression a little too thoughtful for his liking. “Why did you just say that?”

  “Say what? That your sisters would have met and married—”

  “No, about your not being loveable.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “No one on this earth cares about me. No one ever did. Not even me.”

  ***

  Dillie came around the bed to face Ian, wanting to be angry with him and at the same time wanting to throw her arms around him to assure him that someone cared. Someone must have loved Ian at some point in his life. His parents. His siblings. A sweetheart?

  She felt a pang in her heart. It wasn’t jealousy. She’d have to care for Ian in that way to feel such a thing. She didn’t care for him and never would. Absolutely not. “I’ll fetch your clothes.” It was of no moment that looking at his broad, lightly tanned chest and the soft gold hairs that lined its rippling planes was making her lightheaded. She glanced away from his dangerously gleaming, gray-green eyes.

  Ian knew how to make women swoon.

  Fortunately, she never swooned. She was too practical for such nonsense.

  Nor did his muscled arms make her body tingle. She was merely responding to the ugly, red gashes crisscrossed on them.

  He wasn’t in the least attractive. Not after three days of sweating out a high fever. Besides his ragged growth of beard, he had a large cowlick sticking up from his matted honey-gold hair. It didn’t matter that some of those gold curls had looped about his neck and ears in a manner that made her fingers itch to brush them back. The cowlick made him look ridiculous.

  Ridiculously handsome.

  No! She refused to find him attractive. Absolutely not. Not in the least. Yet, the casual way he dismissed his wounds tugged at her heart. He was used to pain, used to hiding deep, ugly scars. The horrible sort, the unseen ones capable of destroying one’s spirit.

  Who had done such a thing to Ian? The elephant gun was still loaded. She wanted to hunt down those wicked people and shoot them with both barrels.

  CHAPTER 2

  AFTER BREAKFAST the next morning, Dillie decided to sit down and play the piano. She needed to clear her mind, and anyway, she hadn’t practiced in months. There had been too much to do to help her twin sister plan her wedding. In truth, she and their mother had done most of the planning while Lily was, as usual, absorbed in her baboon research. Then all those Farthingale relatives had descended on their townhouse from all over the British Isles to celebrate Lily’s big day and Dillie had been enlisted to help her mother entertain them all.

  Dillie entered the music room, looking forward to the solitude. It was a cold, rainy day, the sort of day to sleep late or cozy up in a chair by the fire to read a good book. She’d looked in on Ian earlier. He was sleeping comfortably, his forehead cool. His valet had delivered a leather pouch full of important papers that Ian would review when he awoke. Her uncle had allowed it now that Ian was no longer delirious. However, he hadn’t allowed Ian to leave their home, for he wasn’t completely out of danger yet.

  Ian’s fever had returned last night.

  Fortunately, he was cool by this morning and looked stronger. Dillie could tell he was on the mend because he was frustrated, impatient, and eager to climb out of bed.

  Mercy! The sight of him as he’d lunged out of bed yesterday, not a stit
ch of clothing on his muscled torso, still had her heart in palpitations.

  With Ian’s health improving, Dillie realized she was no longer needed to tend him. Ashcroft, his valet, would now take over nursemaid duties. She was glad for the change, and glad that he would be gone by the end of the week, for the sight of London’s most eligible bachelor occupying her bed, his big, hard body taking up most of its width, had left her moon-eyed, witless, and vulnerable.

  However, she would miss him.

  Would he miss her? Of course not. Ian had a beautiful mistress and a circle of dissolute friends who would quickly occupy his time.

  She sat on the piano bench, took a deep breath, and struck the first chord of a concerto she particularly liked. Her fingers flew over the ivory keys, for she knew the piece by heart and didn’t need to concentrate to play it perfectly. In any event, how could she concentrate with Ian upstairs? In her bed. Still naked.

  She finished the concerto and began to play one of her favorite madrigals, singing along as she played the sweetly melodic, but wistful, tune about a young woman’s true love lost at war. Then she played another, and in this one the fair maiden died in her lover’s arms.

  “Do you know any songs that don’t involve death?” Ian asked, limping into the music room and surprising her while she searched through her folios for some merrier tunes.

  She turned to face him, relieved to see that he was clean shaven and properly dressed. Fully clothed. Incredibly handsome. He had on a white lawn shirt and dark gray breeches molded to his long, muscled legs, and he wore knee-length polished black boots. His cravat was a deep green silk that matched the forest-mist color of his eyes, and his gray silk vest brought out the silvery glint in them. No jacket, though she wasn’t surprised, for the worst of his wounds, the one at his waist, had not yet healed and the weight of the jacket would only be an irritant.

  He looked almost as good as he had yesterday while naked and rising from her bed, his broad shoulders and muscled arms flexing as he strained to stand.