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

by Meara Platt

  Eloise came to her defense. “Now see here, Phoebe. Dillie is delightful. She’ll have a dozen eligible bachelors swooning at her feet within the fortnight. Mark my words. You haven’t caught her at her best just now.”

  Phoebe turned to Ian. “What about you, Edgeware?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “What about me?”

  “You seem interested in the girl. You came to her rescue—”

  “As we all did.”

  Her sharp nose wiggled. “But—”

  “Lady Withnall, please,” Dillie interceded. “Haven’t I humiliated myself sufficiently? I’ll readily admit that I’m a duckling among swans. I’ve never been anywhere without one or more of my sisters close at hand. I don’t do well on my own, as you can see. I’m miserable enough about it. Please don’t let the world know.”

  Ian had rarely seen any softness in Phoebe Withnall. The woman seemed to thrive on the fear and pain of others, so he was quite surprised when the old harridan actually smiled at Dillie. Not one of her gloating, triumphant smiles, but a tender, indulgent one. “My dear, your secret is quite safe with me.”

  Dillie let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

  The old harridan turned to Eloise. “I think we must be off. Lady Dowling is expecting us. She’s eager for my news about her husband. That wine-soaked old sot. She’s better off without him.” She tipped her head at Ian. Said nothing. Just smiled. That worried him. “Daisy. Gabriel. Come see us off.”

  Which meant she’d purposely left Ian alone with Dillie.

  Bad.

  She knew Dillie liked him. Did she realize just how much he liked Dillie?

  ***

  “Crumpets.” Dillie gazed at Ian, her heart beating wildly and eyes still wide in panic. He, the bounder, looked magnificently composed and controlled. “No good will come of this. I made an utter fool of myself.”

  “You were fine. Even Lady Withnall likes you, and she doesn’t like anybody.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How can you say that?”

  “What would you like me to say? That you allowed an infant to get the better of you, then allowed a woman no bigger than that infant to scare you into a sneezing frenzy?”

  She had hoped he would tell her that he admired the way she’d handled herself, that he’d ached watching her hold Ivy and was proud of the way she’d handled Lady Withnall. He wouldn’t say any of it, for it wasn’t true.

  She had behaved like an idiot. She had a welt on her chin from Ivy’s teething. Her hair was about to tumble about her shoulders once again. And she’d suffered a sneezing fit after accidentally biting down on those sardines, her reaction chasing host, hostess, and guests from Daisy’s parlor. Had she not been so distracted, she would have seen what she was about to put into her mouth and never taken a bite out of it.

  Only Ian remained beside her now, no doubt out of a misguided sense of duty. “How’s your breathing? Feeling any better?”

  “Much better.” She wanted him to take her into his arms and protect her from her own idiocy.

  She was such a coward!

  She let out a light, laughing groan. “I will admit, I’ve had better moments.”

  “You’ll do better next time. In truth, you scared the hell out of me. What happened? You were in serious distress.”

  She sighed. “I panicked. But you were quite heroic in coming to my rescue.”

  His haunted gaze bore into her, no sign of teasing humor, as though he’d seriously risk his life to save her if it ever came to that.

  Oh, crumpets again! “Lady Withnall scares me. I was so afraid I’d let slip what happened last November, I accidentally bit down on the sardines. I can’t abide them and they don’t like me either. I acted purely out of fear. Unbridled terror, if you must know the truth.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I was quaking in my boots, too.” He grinned and dabbed at her chin with his handkerchief again. Then he took her hand and held it in his warm grasp. “There, all better. Well, almost.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by almost?”

  He tweaked her nose. “Your hair’s a little out of place. A lot, actually.”

  “Oh, not again!” Her hands shot to her hair. Most of the pins she’d stuck back in place after Ivy had pulled them out were now dangling amid her curls again.

  Ian stopped her as she tried to put them back in place. “Let me,” he said in a husky rumble that stole her breath away. The pulse at the base of her throat began to pound as he leaned in close. Oh, he smelled so good, the scent of sandalwood so pure and fresh against his skin.

  She smelled of sardines, spittle, and drool.

  “You smell of peaches and heaven,” he said with a soft chuckle, easily reading her thoughts. She’d have to work on masking her expressions better. Men liked mysterious women, right? In any event, she couldn’t let Ian know just how much she liked him.

  Her heart began to flutter as he took out all her pins and slowly ran his hands through her unbound hair. Oh, that feels sinfully good. But she couldn’t let him know that either.

  “Your hair’s soft as silk. Seems a shame to put it back up.”

  She was a grown woman. She couldn’t go about with her hair wild and unbound, though she often did so when at Coniston. There was something about the pure country air and unspoiled lakes and hillsides that freed one from society’s restrictive conventions. “Help me pin the last of it up, you wretch. You promised you would.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Why am I a wretch? I thought I was behaving myself.” He turned her slightly away. “Here, tilt your head a little. That’s it.” He tucked the last of her pins firmly in her hair. “You’re all put together again. Back to your prim and proper self.”

  He spoke as though there was something wrong with the notion. “It’s the only way I know how to be.” However, she wasn’t really offended or even angry with Ian. He’d been wonderful to her throughout the tea. She grinned. “Except when I’m maniacally deranged, as I was in front of Lady Withnall.”

  He cast her another surprisingly tender smile. “No, you’re perfect. You’re Dillie Farthingale, often sensible, sometimes scared. Always enchanting. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  She hated when he was nice to her. He made her body parts tingle. More than tingle. They were on volcano-about-to-erupt alert.

  He fished into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here, I have something for you.” He handed her a slender box.

  A gift? From Ian? She closed her eyes a moment to cool her overly heated senses. “What is it?”

  “Open it and see. I promise, it’s no trick. Just as you were thinking of my firm and golden buns,” he teased, “I was thinking of you. I was going to stop by your residence sometime later this week, but since we’re here right now, there’s no point in waiting. Go on, open the box. I think you’ll like what’s inside.”

  She nodded and smiled up at him, but was worried that he’d bought her an expensive trinket, the sort of elaborate jewelry that a man would purchase for his mistress. She could never wear something like that. Nor would she accept it. And what would her family say? “You don’t owe me anything, Ian. I’m glad you’ve recovered and look so fit. I—oh, Ian! It’s beautiful!” She gazed up at him and laughed. He’d bought her a silver brooch fashioned in the shape of an elephant gun. It wasn’t fancy at all, didn’t even have any precious gemstones worked into it. “I love it. It’s perfect.”

  “Am I forgiven for teasing you?”

  She nodded. “You’re forgiven for everything.”

  He arched an eyebrow in confusion. “What else have I done wrong?”

  “Nothing.” And that was the problem. As far as she could tell, he had no faults, except for his desire never to marry.

  That counted as a fault, didn’t it?

  CHAPTER 4

  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, Ian was comfortably ensconced in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in the larger club room at White’s, nursing a finely aged Madeira port and co
ntemplating his latest problem. The mahogany wood-paneled male sanctuary smelled of finely cured cigars, worn leather, oil polish, and newsprint.

  He’d just ordered another glass of port when Graelem and Gabriel strode in. If Graelem was back in town, then the entire Farthingale clan could not be far behind. Cousins, aunts, and uncles from Oxfordshire, Yorkshire, Derbyshire, and heaven knows where else would all descend on the Farthingale residence on Chipping Way, eager to celebrate the start of this year’s season.

  He knew Dillie would not mind the noise or be dismayed by the lack of privacy, for she loved every single member of her unruly family. Quite a contrast between the Farthingales and his own miserable excuse for relatives.

  “There you are,” Gabriel said from across the room, earning frowns from the older gentlemen hunched in their chairs, reading their newspapers. “Where have you been hiding?”

  “In plain sight.” It was early April, still a little too soon for the marriage mart to fully hit its stride, but there were plenty of dinner parties, musicales, and soirees to keep those already in town entertained. He’d attended a few of those events, mostly those known to attract a faster crowd. He knew Dillie would not be permitted to attend these more risqué gatherings.

  Ian set down the crystal wine glass he’d been absently twirling in his hand and rose as his friends approached.

  “You weren’t at Eloise’s last night.”

  He shrugged. “Something came up. I couldn’t make it.”

  Gabriel arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. He’d mellowed since his marriage to Daisy, no doubt due to her influence; she was the middle Farthingale daughter and the one who always strove to keep peace in the family. Graelem had married Laurel, the hot-tempered daughter. Graelem had a bit of a temper himself and needed a strong-willed woman to keep him in check, though it was Laurel’s soft side that seemed to do the trick more often than not.

  Dillie, the youngest of the Farthingale girls, although by only several minutes, seemed to have taken snippets of the best qualities from her sisters. She was as artistic as Rose, the eldest. She was spirited, but not as quick to anger as Laurel. She was as caring and loving as Daisy, and almost as clever as her twin, Lily. In truth, Lily was a freak of nature. No living being came close to her intelligence. Yet Lily always turned to Dillie first for advice.

  Hell. He was thinking of Dillie again. He hadn’t meant to, for he had bigger problems at the moment. Apparently Graelem and Gabriel were worried about something as well.

  “We’ve just come from the Prince Regent. Those blackguards who tried to kill you last November weren’t Napoleon’s agents. No connection whatsoever. He’s worried about you, wants to know who else might want you dead,” Gabriel said, drawing him into a quieter corner of the club room.

  Ian frowned. “I have plenty of enemies.” Including my own family.

  Graelem glanced around to make certain no one was standing close enough to overhear them. “That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  He’d told his two friends and the Prince Regent of the attack. Of course, he’d had to report it in full to Prinny, but hadn’t gone into quite the same detail with his friends. If they ever found out that he’d recovered in Dillie’s bed, or that she’d nursed him back to health, he would be a dead man.

  He would tell them eventually. Now was not the right time.

  “Forget about the incident. My only concern is that it represented a possible threat to the royal family. If it’s just some husband after me for a supposed wrong, then leave it alone. I was hurt. That ought to be enough to satisfy the old clot who sent those blackguards.”

  Gabriel rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and sighed. “I still don’t like it. You’re being far too casual about the incident. You almost died.”

  He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “First of all, I’m still alive. Second, no one would care if I did die.”

  “We would,” Gabriel insisted.

  “So would the Farthingale family,” Graelem added. “You helped to save Lily when she was abducted and they’re forever grateful.”

  “I didn’t do all that much. Ewan and his Bow Street runners were the ones who saved her.”

  “What you did was important,” Graelem insisted, getting that stubborn look about him. “Lily’s parents, not to mention Dillie, were in unbearable pain. Those twins practically share one heart, and when they were forced apart, Dillie felt every painful rip. You stayed beside them the entire time, gave them hope that Lily would be found alive.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Never realized I was quite that magnificent.”

  Gabriel punched him on the shoulder. “You aren’t. But the Farthingales think you are.”

  Ian cuffed him back with a laugh. “I’m sure I can count on both of you to assure them that I’m an utter ass.”

  Several of the older members ruffled their newspapers and let out angry harrumphs.

  Gabriel glanced around and caught the attention of a club steward. He pointed to the glass Ian had set down when they’d first walked in. “This is a woman’s drink. We need a bottle of fine aged whiskey. Your best. Spare no expense. And three glasses sent to the billiards room. Put it on the duke’s account.”

  Ian let out a laughing groan.

  “Make that two bottles,” Graelem added, but his grin faded once the ancient steward slowly shuffled off to do their bidding. “We have another matter to discuss with you. It concerns Dillie.”

  Ian’s laughter faded. Had someone hurt her? He’d rip the blackguard apart with his bare hands.

  “She has a suitor,” Gabriel said once they’d reached the privacy of the billiards room and shut the door behind them. “Lord Ealing’s eldest son, Charles. The Farthingales believe he’ll ask for her hand in marriage soon.”

  Ian said nothing, for his body had just taken a hard slam to the ground. It was ridiculous, of course. He didn’t plan to marry. He didn’t want Dillie. So why didn’t he want anyone else to have her? He was like the dog in Aesop’s fable who didn’t want the food in the stable trough, but wouldn’t let the other animals have it either.

  He ought to have been overjoyed for Dillie. Charles Ealing was a good man. A decent man. A simple man. Too bad Dillie would be bored to tears within a month of their marriage. “Give her my congratulations. I’m sure she’ll make him a fine wife.”

  Graelem frowned. “She would, but he’d make her a terrible husband. We need your help to stop the wedding.”

  Ian had been in ill humor all day. The news about Dillie only put him in fouler temper. Dillie in love and getting married? He couldn’t wrap his brain around it. He didn’t want to think of the girl in another man’s arms. He didn’t wish to think of the girl at all. “There’s nothing to stop. He hasn’t asked her yet. Right?”

  “That’s right,” Graelem said.

  Ian lifted a cue off the rack and pretended to study it. In truth, he had the violent urge to break it over Ealing’s head. Good thing the clunch wasn’t at White’s. Ian wasn’t sure he’d let him escape this stodgy establishment alive. “Why are you two so eager to meddle in Dillie’s affairs?”

  “Bugger,” Graelem muttered. “It isn’t us. It’s our wives. Dillie’s sisters. They’ve got it into their heads that Dillie can’t possibly love him. They’re worried that she’s feeling lonely because they’re all married and out of the house. They don’t want her to make a mistake she’ll regret for the rest of her life.”

  “She’s a clever girl, not likely to make such a blunder.” But he’d seen the way Dillie had looked at little Ivy, the way she’d lovingly held her and inhaled her baby scent. Dillie was all about love and nurturing. She must have felt terribly alone these past few months, rattling about the empty halls now that all her sisters were gone.

  He understood about loneliness. He’d spent most of his life feeling as though he were entombed in a coffin, trapped in a breath-stealing nothingness while everyone around him went about with their lives.

 
Dillie’s sisters were busy leading their own lives, raising their own families. Dillie no longer knew how she fit in.

  But how could he help? He wanted Dillie out of his life, out of his thoughts. How else would he ever regain control of his traitorous body? “There’s a simple solution. Buy her a dog.”

  “Dillie needs a husband. The right husband,” Graelem said, “not a damn dog.”

  “You’re wrong. Dillie needs something to occupy her attention. A pet will do the trick.” But Ian’s heart was a pounding, thrumming riot as they stood glowering at each other in the private gaming room. The steward chose that moment to enter with their drinks. It was about time. Why couldn’t he have come a little sooner, preferably before the conversation had turned to Dillie?

  Ian was certain he heard the old man’s knees creak as he doddered in. More creaking as he set down the bottle and glasses, then ever so slowly made his way out. How much time had elapsed? Hours? Weeks? Eons?

  Well, perhaps he was a bit impatient. Patience had never been one of his virtues. Not that he had any virtues. Rakehells never did. So why were his friends dragging him into a Farthingale problem?

  Graelem settled into one of the soft leather chairs while Gabriel grabbed one of the cues and set the balls on the table.

  “Care to place a bet?” Ian asked.

  Gabriel shook his head. “No. You always win. I prefer better odds when I wager.”

  Ian led off, giving his ball a sure, swift strike so that it hit the others with a precise spin. One ball rolled into the left corner pocket. Another caromed off the maroon felt backing and fell into the right corner pocket.

  Ian called his next shot, made it, and then walked around the billiards table to face Gabriel. “Out with it. Why did you tell me about Dillie? And when did you two turn into a couple of old women? I’m not getting involved. I won’t meddle in a wedding that may never take place.” He turned to concentrate on his next shot, but struck his ball so hard it almost flew off the table. “Sorry. I’ve had a bad few months. Don’t need more troubles piled on.”